


my castles in the sky are tumbling down

by ohhotlamb



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Ableist Language, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, Blood and Injury, Childhood Memories, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, Political Alliances, Slow Burn, Unreliable Narrator, Violence, War, hint hint, in which tooru has an absolutely terrible memory, more tags and characters will be added as we go, there may be side pairs eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-07-14 21:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 54,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7192292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhotlamb/pseuds/ohhotlamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't think about those familiar dark eyes staring numbly into his own. He doesn't think about the remnant staleness of sake on his breath. He doesn't think about the cup with which he had to share wine; he doesn't think about the rim in which their lips shared drink. </p><p>He does not think about his husband.</p><p> </p><p>Translated into <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12662138/1/Mes-ch%C3%A2teaux-s-effondrent-dans-le-ciel">French</a> {français}</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. luna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge huge huge thanks to [seraphica](http://seraphica.tumblr.com/) for being the biggest help and best brainstorming partner!!

_“You must be sure to please your husband, Tooru.”_

Those are the words that are ringing through Tooru’s head, over and over, like the bone-deep echo of a bronze bell struck at sunrise. It’s numbing, which is the only reason he’s allowing these women to push him through the compound, being tugged along like a pet on the end of a leash. It’s the shock, he tells himself dully. He’s seen it do terrible things—he’s seen it reduce even the strongest of men to blank slates, unseeing and unfeeling—this must be the same thing, he reasons. He’s seen limbs cleaved from bodies and has taunted death like a slab of meat dangled in front of a tiger, but nothing could have prepared him for this hollow feeling, this deeply buried dread sitting like a stone in the pit of his stomach.  _You’re not dead. Your heart is still beating,_ he reminds himself, a small part of his rational mind still clawing for some sort of silver-lining.  _I’m not dead._ Tooru looks down at his ceremonial kimono.  _But I might as well be._

They tug him through the intricate gardens surrounding the castle keep, so unnervingly quiet that it reminds him of a funeral march. The only sound is the soft shuffling of their slippers on the dirt path, the swish of fabric and the tribal drum of Tooru’s heartbeat echoing in his ears. They pass finely shaped trees and bushes, the leaves having been shed from the passed autumn, and he shivers. He’s not used to the cold—not like this. This palace is not even that much further north, yet it’s an unfamiliar cold, the wind biting and not tinted with brine from the sea. It feels foreign, strange, out-of-place—

Just like him.

(He doesn't think about those familiar dark eyes staring numbly into his own. He doesn't think about the remnant staleness of sake on his breath. He doesn't think about the cup with which he had to share wine; he doesn't think about the rim in which their lips shared drink. 

He does not think about his husband.)

It’s a beautiful night, in stark contrast to the abysmal occasion. Tooru looks up at the sky—a full moon. It fills him with the slightest bit of comfort; no matter where he goes from here on out, the moon will always be the same, wherever he is. It’s like having a piece of home away from home, hundreds of miles away from his bedroom window, from the moon-viewing turret in which he spent a good portion of his life staring up at the sky. Looking at the stars and the suspended glowing sliver of light, tracing the perfect curve with his eyes, closing them and imagining what it would be like, if he could sit on that very last hook, the very tip, his legs swinging in the open space beneath him with stardust settling in his hair. But those sorts of dreams don’t belong in a place like this. They don’t belong with someone like him.

Not anymore.

He has to admit though, however begrudgingly, that the central keep is magnificent. He hadn’t been old enough to truly appreciate it the last time he saw it. The dark gables are artfully crafted, swooping away like wing-tips from the pitched roof; the stone of the walls are a stark white, glowing in the light of the moon. There are nearly too many windows to count. His eyes scan them, a corner of his mind already planning—escape routes, attack points, mapping out the most likely layout of the inner architecture. He has to deliberately turn his mind off—this was his home now, too. It would do him no good to be planning the demise of his own castle.

“It’s that one,” one of the girls murmurs to him quietly. She points discretely towards the right-most window on what looks to be the fifth or sixth floor, the dim glow of a single candle flickering against the slip of visible wall. Her slight hand is startlingly pale in the dark. 

“Ah, candlelight,” Tooru sighs, and none of the women look at him as he continues, tutting regretfully. “My, how romantic. It’s a shame you ladies can’t stay for the honeymoon.”

“You wouldn’t want us there, Oikawa-sama.” It’s the same girl again. She seems nervous, her eyes darting to each of the others in turn, as if she’s expecting a scolding for speaking out. Her gaze never meets his—they remain downcast. A servant in the presence of her master.

“Wouldn’t I?” His grin is wolfish and entirely false, covering up the panic like a cracked mask. She doesn’t look at his face to see it, but the way she flinches slightly tells him that she can hear it in his voice. It tells him what he already knows—that she pities him. That they all do.

(He doesn't want their sympathy.) 

The walk up those damnable stairs is slow. They know about his leg, but then again, everyone does. He does not limp, but he must be careful in his steps, so their progress is frustrating at best. He has to grit his teeth not to grunt each time he swings his full weight into his right hip, pulling himself step by step up the wooden staircase. His breathing becomes labored quickly, but the handmaidens are patient with him—the young one, the nervous one, the brave one—more than once she reaches out, as if to help him, but then the eldest shoots her a hiss from between curled lips, and she rips her hands away.

They give him a moment to catch his breath once they step onto the landing of the sixth floor, and then they’re ushering him through to the room at the very end. He’s relieved to see that he’s arrived before his husband. The room is empty, and he tries not to pay too close attention to the perfectly staged bed.

The bath is already prepared for him, a copper tub filled with scalding water. Steam rises and clouds the washroom, opening up his sinuses, leaving his skin feeling damp and sticky. The handmaidens go about untying his kimono, loosening the knot of his obiand allowing him to step out of his hakamatrousers. They unwrap his top, leaving it to hang off of his shoulders loosely.

“I trust you can bathe yourself?” asks the eldest, draping a bathrobe over the wooden chair next to the tub, setting a box of silken ribbons into the seat of it.  

Tooru hums. “Certainly. But that doesn’t mean I wish to." His voice is a low purr, eyelashes batting like a fan. The youngest makes a soft peep, and the eldest narrows her eyes.

“Wait in here for him,” is what she replies with, nodding towards the basket sat beside the basin. “Soaps and creams and perfumes. Use them. Make yourself clean and presentable. The young lord is a patient man, but I have a feeling you are an exception.”

Tooru cocks a brow in dry amusement, because from what he remembers, she’s not wrong. But then again, there aren’t too many people who are wholly patient with Tooru, once they get to know him.

She excuses herself then, shooing the other girls out of the room. The small one sends him a worried, fretful look on her way out, eyes on his chin, waist bent in a bow as she slides the door closed behind her. Then he’s alone, and Tooru can finally breathe.

He ignores the bath. He slips out of the last of his kimono, letting it pool on the floor, and kicks it into the darkest corner of the washroom. A part of him briefly contemplates dumping it into the hot water and letting all of the lovely dyes saturated in his nervous sweat run out and paint the water murky. But he recognizes the waste that would be, so instead he splashes his face with the cool water from a smaller basin on the large vanity. He rubs at his cheeks and forehead to wash away the sweat and the white powder they had lightly coated his skin with, making him turn from ghostly into something once again resembling a human. He wipes away the black they had smudged above his eyes before drying his skin gently with the cloth they provided him. He samples all of the creams—one of them is perfumed to smell nostalgically floral, and he rubs a dab of it behind each ear. Into the warm pulse of his wrist. He presses the soft skin into his nose and inhales deeply, closing his eyes.

Having nothing else to do, he finally strips himself out of the last of his undergarments before stepping into the silk robe (crimson red,  _blood red_ , and he smiles wryly), leaves the washroom, and sits down on the bed to wait. His mouth still tastes faintly of wine. 

(He doesn't focus on the clear intention behind the low, intimate lighting. He doesn't think about another body, having slept in this very spot for years. He doesn't think about the fact that in the months to come, he will become very,  _very_ familiar with the ceiling above his head.)

His wait, thankfully, is brief. Before he has the chance to even warm the mattress with his body heat he can hear a solitary set of footsteps walking down the hallway. There’s a soft knock on the wood paneling around the paper door, and it slides opens before Tooru is allowed to call back a “come in”.

Immediately, he feels sick to his stomach. The anxiety he’d been holding back in the presence of the ladies; what he’d been steadfastly pretending wasn’t there as he cleaned himself; it comes back ten-fold, nearly as powerful as it had been in the minutes before the ceremony, and it takes all he has to keep his limbs from shaking.

(It would have been different, had he wanted this. But he had never wanted this.)

“Iwaizumi,” Tooru nods curtly, not bothering with honorifics. He gets a narrowing of eyes in return, and his husband doesn't step away from the threshold. Hishusband _—_ nowadays he’s known for his battlefield ruthlessness, a legendary swordsman unmatched in power. The son and the sole heir set to inherit this land from his father. But back when Tooru first met him, he was but a boy of seven and not nearly so sour-faced; Tooru can only hope that not every piece of that earnest child has died along with the roundness of his cheeks; has not been buried beneath miles of bitterness. 

“Oikawa.”

Tooru startles at the first word to leave Iwaizumi’s lips. He hadn’t spoken at all during the ceremony—he had stared ahead, eyes dull and dead like a rotting fish. He had drank wine when he was told, and he had bowed his head to pray silently to the gods when the priest commanded. His voice—oh, how it has changed. It's the first time Tooru's heard it since the age of sixteen, the both of them only at the cusp of adulthood. It has become low, like gravel under the wheels of a carriage, perfectly enunciated the way only true nobility were taught. The way Tooru himself was taught. But there’s a clear accent, an obvious deviation that gives away his birthplace. 

“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” he continues, nodding minutely at Tooru’s place on the bed, looking like he couldn't really be bothered either way. His hair shines wet and his skin is slightly reddened. He must have taken advantage of a hot bath in another room. Tooru refuses to dwell on why. 

He smiles, not letting the edges waver. “What’s yours is mine, and mine is yours—isn’t that what we’ve just agreed to?”

“Funny how my memory’s failing me. You didn’t seem quite so enthusiastic during the ceremony.”

“It's a pity you've become senile already in your young age. As you can see, I am _ever_ so eager to start our lives together.”

“Is that so?” Iwaizumi finally moves then, just one step towards the bed—and  _immediately_ Tooru bristles, his heart jumping painfully into his throat. Iwaizumi smiles, like he’s pleased to have caught Tooru on his bluff. “Then why don’t you try to relax? You're sitting on  _our_ bed, after all. Comfortable, isn’t it? How are the sheets?” he steps again, and Tooru bites on his tongue to keep himself from leaping to his feet and tearing his way out of here. But the motion is merely for Iwaizumi to step over to the window. Moonlight is spilling in from the shuttered slats of wood, and he peers through them. Light is cast across his eyes in a pale stripe, and Tooru is faintly surprised that they do not become lit from behind, like a carnivore staring into the flame of a torch. He stays quiet like that for a long while, Tooru’s muscles coiling tighter and tighter with the growing tension, and he prepares himself for the worst.

Iwaizumi lets out a breath, his next words getting dragged out of him as painfully as blade through bone. “It’s according to our laws that the marriage must be consummated if it's to be considered official.”

Tooru doesn't dither. He curls his legs up into himself, hiding the twinge of his knee with a straight face as he physically closes himself off. He had promised himself from the very start, from the moment the announcement of this culling had left his father’s lips—

He tilts his chin up in defiance, leg quivering with the effort of pulling it in, but he hides it well. “Let’s just make one thing crystal clear,  _darling,_ ” he hisses, his fingers twitching for the katana that isn’t tied to his waist—the handmaidens had taken the dagger from his thigh, as well. He loathes feeling so bare. “I may be crippled, but I am not some delicate wayside flower,” he spits venomously. “You probably don't remember. But it would do you well to know that if you so much as  _touch_ me—" 

“Make no mistake,” Iwaizumi grins humorlessly. “I'm well aware of your reputation. It’s common knowledge that the youngest son of the Oikawa clan was well on his way to leading his own army.  _Was.”_  He stresses that word, and Tooru wants nothing more than to strangle the life out of him for it. “There's no way I could possibly forget. But now you’re here, and you’re bound to me for life.” He makes a face, like he has to swallow down bile. “And now I’m asking you,” he pauses, looking pointedly at the bed, “are we going to uphold the traditions of newlyweds?”

The answer comes swiftly and without hesitation. “Quite honestly, I would rather die.”

“So where does this leave us?”

Tooru considers this, head tilted to the side. “If that is what the laws state, then you are no husband of mine.”

Iwaizumi barely grants him a glance from the side of his eyes, face carefully dispassionate. “Then that is just as well, as I have no intention of being married to a  _fool._ ”

A very small part of Tooru is relieved—that there is  _nothing_ remaining in this crude man of the boy he once knew. That makes it all the easier for his own anger to dominate. He feels fury build in his chest, his stomach acid rising with this fresh rage, and his fists clench in the silk of their honeymoon sheets. “ _Get out.”_

Iwaizumi steps away from the window, letting out a dark laugh. “I was already leaving.”

“Tell our fathers that we are incompatible.”

Iwaizumi looks scornfully over his shoulder. “I will tell  _my_ father that I refuse play games with the idiot brat of his favorite clan. We are already on good terms with your people; I see no need to soil it with a  _sham_  of a marriage. You can tell yours whatever you want. Goodnight.”

He disappoints Tooru by sliding the door shut behind him gently, and Tooru  _hates_ that sort of thing. He hates that fake maturity and exaggerated patience because it's a  _ruse_ , a ruse to make Tooru look like the childish party here, and they both know it. But he's  _not_ a fool. He knows enough to not truly believe that anything is over and done with. He doesn’t have that kind of power. The lords—their fathers, the puppet masters of the red string—

It was never their choice to begin this, and it won’t be their choice to end it.

Tooru leans back into the soft cushions (my bed, his bed,  _our_ bed—) with a shaky exhale, all the fight leaving his body at once. His knee throbs, a dull aching pain from a stale wound, swollen from walking up all those stairs. He doesn’t know how he will make the trip so often; he would sooner sleep out in the garden under one of the decorative maples. He clutches his fingers around the tender skin, not making a sound. He won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry.

He tilts his head, looking out at the yellow moon, and lets the tears drip down his chin soundlessly.

“Must be nice,” he whispers. “How nice it must be to be you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because obviously i dont have enough wips so lets start a multi-chap iwaoi l m a o i dunno i just wanted to try something different from what i usually do. i mean im a sap so there is def gonna be some fluff later on - it's just that im not very well versed in angst or violence but i gotta branch out somehow. so lets see where this takes us
> 
> disclaimer #1 - i might change the title later. not sure if im feelin this one  
> #2 - i'm basing this story LOOSELY off of feudal Japan, a time and culture that i know very very little about. I did research (more than i have for any story i've written so far) but for the most part this is going to be drenched in artistic liberty so there are bound to be inaccuracies and blatant stretches on my part. sorry in advance. 
> 
>  [tumblr dot com](http://ohhotlamb.tumblr.com/)


	2. deimos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks (AGAIN) to the lovely [seraphica](http://seraphica.tumblr.com/) for looking this over for me <3

 

_\- then -_

 

“Tooru.”

Tooru bows slightly at the waist, dismissively flicking his fingers behind him for the servant to leave. They do, but not before setting a tray carrying a fresh pot of tea and a plate of confectioneries on the table. After they’ve finished, they soundlessly slide the door closed behind them, and then parent and child are left alone.

“Father. You called for me?”

Noboru gestures. “Sit.”

His father’s quarters are some of the more lovely rooms in their keep—windows floor-to-ceiling, disproportionately slim and arched at the tops. Mid-afternoon sunlight streams through and warms one of the cushioned seats. Tooru selects this one, draping himself across it like a basking cat, both legs flung over the arm. It’s a good day, pain-wise; his knee had only ached a little bit when he woke, and once the joints warmed up as he started about his day the throbbing had all but disappeared. The sun is warming him even more, making him drowsy and comfortable. He’s all-over feeling rather pleasant, and it shows.

“You’re in a good mood,” Noboru observes, smile faint like a wrinkle in old parchment. He reaches to set an empty cup in front of Tooru, filling it with the fresh brew from the pot in front of them. He leans back into his chair with a creak and an aggrieved sigh that speaks of his age. 

“Is that really so strange?” Tooru accepts the tea with softly murmured thanks, raising it curiously to his lips. He inhales the sweet steam, closing his eyes in bliss. Mint. His favorite.

“No, but it makes this conversation easier.”                          

Tooru’s eyes open again languidly, one corner of his mouth curling up in a wry smile. “How ominous. I don’t know if I like where this is going.”

Noboru lifts his shoulders in a shrug, head tilting to the side. “You may not. But it’s still something we need to discuss.”

More awake now, Tooru twists properly in his seat, slippered feet touching the floor. He leans forward, elbows into the worn wood. “Is something the matter? What has happened?” His eyes widen in alarm. “Another skirmish in the borderlands?”

“No, calm yourself. It’s nothing of that sort.” Noboru looks up over his own cup, eyes calculating. Tooru has heard that he has inherited those eyes exactly. His father is thinking deeply about something, undoubtedly wondering the best way to phrase it in order to get what he wants. Tooru has inherited that trait from him as well.

“Tooru.”

Tooru sits up straighter. “Yes, Father?”

“Do you remember the son of Iwaizumi’s?”

The name does more than ring a bell. Iwaizumi is the lord of the territory directly north, and he has ruled over the land of Seijou for as long as most people can remember. His heir, called Hajime—Tooru’s age and about a quarter as handsome. Possibly less. Yet for his unfortunate looks he boasts an impressive array of conquests for someone so young: reclaiming land that had previously been stolen by Datekougyou nearly fifty years prior; completely massacring groups of barbarians that had once terrorized the village people of the eastern mountains. He is someone whose soldiers would follow into hell if he commanded. There are those who pledge their subservience to him based on reputation alone.

But Tooru has a feeling that his father isn’t asking for an encyclopedic knowledge of every triumph the man has accomplished. The way he asks—it’s like he’s inquiring after the health of an old friend. So Tooru thinks back, tries to place a face to the name—

It’s difficult, even for Tooru. It’s been at least six years, after all, since they last exchanged words. He remembers being a teenager, standing beside the koi pond in one of his nicer kimono, twirling a peach bloom between his fingertips. Tetsurou had been sprawled across the large and flat stone set into the edge of the water, ignoring everyone, and Iwaizumi—

But, no, that interaction had been inconsequential. 

Then what else is there? Thinking further back, perhaps they had run through a courtyard together once or twice during their childhoods, fathers busy discussing trade agreements and mothers working on delicate  _ikebana_ arrangements together in a comfortable room. But besides this and perhaps a handful of other words exchanged, there’s nothing remarkable enough to catalogue. A boring face, a stiff personality—honestly, it’s a wonder he’s managed to recruit so many men to sacrifice themselves in his stead.

“I remember him, though I can’t say he made much of an impression,” Tooru eventually admits with a laugh, and Noboru contributes a dry chuckle. Setting his cup of tea back onto the table Tooru reaches for the plate of confections. He picks one made with jellied pieces of apricot. “Why do you ask?” he says, breaking the sweet in half, passing the larger off to his father and bringing the other to his lips. He nibbles at the sticky edges.

“Iwaizumi is on his way out. A disease— the physicians aren’t sure what. But he coughs up more blood each day. He doesn’t have long.”

Tooru tuts regretfully. “How unfortunate.”

He says this, but the reality is that if he spent a minute of his life grieving over every single death he heard of, he’d never stop praying.

“His son—Hajime. He is the successor. It seems that he’s already being groomed for the responsibilities of lordship.”

Tooru cocks an eyebrow. “He is awfully young to be given control over an entire faction, especially given the current conditions with Datekougyou.”

Noboru seems pleased with Tooru’s verdict. “Precisely. This is already a time of instability, and the death of Iwaizumi will throw them off-balance. Without outside cooperation, they will be at risk of attack.”

Tooru’s eyes narrow. He’s finally caught on.

“They have made you an offer.”

“I have been in letter correspondence with Iwaizumi for quite some time. He is too feeble to make the journey here, and I cannot afford to leave this place unattended, now that your brothers are gone. Ah, I do not intend to imply that you are incapable, Tooru. You know I think highly of you. It’s only, because of your injury—"

Tooru smiles thinly. “It would be childish to take offense, Father. Please, go on.”

He seems pleased with this also. He shifts in his chair, joints popping, and he grimaces. “As you personally know, our relations with Shiratorizawa have been rocky at the best of times.” More quietly, voice bubbled over with poison, “That damned man gets cockier by the day.”

Tooru’s nostrils flare. “And one day I will be the one mounting his head on a spear. But you are becoming longwinded, Father. What does this have to do with me?”

“I have spoken at length with Iwaizumi about our respective situations. After much deliberation, we have agreed that it would be in both our best interests if there were to be an alliance between our clans. The addition of men would deter any plans of attack by Datekougyou, and with the union of Seijou the land of Aoba Johsai would span nearly the entire eastern border of Shiratorizawa. Even Ushijima and his bastard son would become hesitant to spark hostilities.”

“So you would like me to travel to the stronghold of Seijou to negotiate in person, is that it?”

Long, spindly fingers come together to form a steeple on the table, intelligent eyes looking over them. “Not quite.”

There’s a rising uneasy feeling that Tooru can’t pinpoint. It's as if one by one, he is becoming surrounded by an invisible enemy, trapping him in the middle. The more he wiggles the more he entices their attack. “I fear I am not fully understanding. You have yet to explain what the son—Hajime’s—involvement will be. Or my own, for that matter.” Out of sudden anxiety, he takes a large bite out of his treat, reaching for the tea with his other hand to help wet his mouth.

“The son is a powerful man but lacks strategic expertise. He requires someone with an eye for detail as his right hand, and we can no longer live in constant fear of a siege by Shiratorizawa. I cannot afford you losing the mobility of your other leg.”

Tooru glances up, his heart suddenly leaping into his throat, his eyes boring intently into the man who gave half of himself to make Tooru—his eyes, his long fingers, the lines of his face during a rare smile, the cold mind of calculation. He could be looking into a mirror as those fingers are lowered, folded neatly, voice dropping into something soothing and with the faintest breath of apology.

“We have agreed that the most peaceful union would come with a mutually beneficial marriage.”

More than once has Tooru been forcefully thrown from the back of a horse. Especially in his younger years when he was still green, still unsure about the placement of his body, still unsure about the best way to calm a spooked animal—he vividly recalls that initial spark of panic, stomach sinking like a stone, the painful head-rush of dizzying blood. The wind knocking out of him the moment his back hits the ground, looking up at the sky and the rearing animal, wondering briefly if he’s going to die by a single misplaced hoof. Unable to breathe and unable to do anything about it.

This feeling is no different. He’s frozen, winded, the lump of confection sitting dryly on his tongue. He struggles to work it down his throat, his mouth too dry to produce any saliva. He stares at his father, skin paling. “ _What have you done?”_

There’s distinct disapproval now; a roll of eyes like Noboru is dealing with a child throwing a tantrum and not a man living in the beginning of his third decade. “Now, now, Tooru. I don’t want your usual dramatics. I am not telling you to waste your youth. You will have options with which to spend your time. Concubines, and—"

“So I’m to be expected to marry Iwaizumi’s son? And this was agreed without my opinion on the matter?” He doesn’t allow any interjection, heat spreading from his flushing cheeks down his chest, a burn in his stomach and behind his stinging eyes. “And let me guess—" he laughs humorlessly. “I am to be the wife? Must you pay him a dowry for your crippled son? Since I am no better than a breeding sow—only useful when it’s being _fucked?”_

“ _Tooru.”_

Tooru glances to the side, his whole body shaking. Though he hasn’t moved his position his knee is suddenly aching with a pain that has him biting his trembling lip, reliving the agony of the wound all over again. He can very nearly feel the dirty iron slice his hot flesh, metal gleaming with the splash of blood and crunch of bone. He closes his eyes. He can very nearly see the cold flint of that damned man staring down at him like the emperor looking upon a simple peasant, remembers the rage and terror filling his mouth with something foul and acrid.

_You shall never be good enough to defeat me, Oikawa. Not you, and certainly not your disciple. Remember this._

He takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. He keeps his words clipped, stiff and impassive. “When is the wedding? When am I meant to be sent for slaughter?”

Noboru stares at him. His face gives nothing away. “You will be expected at Seijou castle within sixty days.”

Tooru looks down at his legs, the knuckles turning white as his fingers dig into the echoing heartbeat—beneath the injury with which he had lost everything.

_Sixty days._

“I understand. May I be excused?”

There is a hint of sympathy now in Noboru’s tone, a gentleness that is as uncharacteristic as it is unwanted. “I do not send you because you are useless in everything else. I send you because you are the only one I can trust to make this bargain worthwhile.”

Tooru feels something inside him snap. “You wish to be rid of a _hindrance_.”

“ _Tooru,”_ Noboru barks for the second time, and Tooru doesn’t look up from his lap, vision wavering. Noboru speaks again, softer. Trying once more for comfort. “I send away my dear son with a heavy heart—this you must believe. I will miss your wit, and our conversations. You are my most prized strategist, as well as my most beloved child.”

_Empty words._

“I suppose there’s nothing I could say to change your mind.”

Noboru sighs. “On your way back please send me Irihata. I must discuss particulars with him.”

Tooru leaves the room with a noose wrapped around his neck.

 

 

* * *

 

_\- now -_

 

 

He wakes alone, his knee throbbing so sharply his immediate worry is that the old scar has torn itself open as he slept. He throws away the sheet, bleary-eyed, and frantically pulls up the hem of the silk robe all the way to his chest. His fingers scrabble over his knee, tracing over the raised ridge of skin, and a relieved breath is pulled out at him to find the wound dry and not crusted with blood. One less thing to fret over.

He looks up then with sleep dust still in his eyes to see what had woken him. The small servant girl from the night before is standing in the doorway, staring at him wide-eyed with a wooden tray in her hands. Her ensuing blush is furious, and she quickly looks away. Explanation comes with an odd breeze, and glances down—he had fallen asleep in the robe, and had not bothered with undergarments once he had cried himself into a stupor. He pulls the hem back over his exposed body, dragging himself into a sitting position.

“Good morning,” he says, voice throaty. She peeks, and, deeming it safe again, comes further into the room. Her eyes stay focused at a fixed point to his left.

“G-good morning, Oikawa-sama. I’ve brought you some…something to eat, and tea. Would you like some? There’s fruit, and—"

“Tell me something,” he interrupts, pulling his left leg towards his chest and wrapping his arms around it. He has to fight a smile as her words are halted so suddenly her whole body jolts with the force of it.

“Yes, my lord?” she squeaks, her eyes blinking one, two, three times. She wets her lips. Their eyes still do not meet. He can hear her distressed breathing from across the room.

Tooru nods his head towards the tray in her hands. “Do you have to carry those all the way up the staircase?”

She has to look at him to see where he’s gesturing, but the moment his eyes flick to her face again she’s concentrating intently on the cream-and-jade teapot in her arms, steam billowing from the spout like smoke from a woodfire. She shakes her head. “No, um, there is a lift—almost like a sort of box, and there are cords that are pulled—"

“Is it big enough to fit a person?”

She almost looks at him again, but just manages not to. She’s flustered and failing miserably in not showing it. “Excuse me?”

He sighs. “I don’t want to worry you, darling, but I fear that if I must make the trip up here every day I’ll simply die.” He had been earnest in this thinking from before, in that there’s no feasible way he’s going to be able to put so much continuous strain on his knee and not suffer for it. And he would prefer it if he didn’t need the physical assistance of a teenaged girl each and every time he wants to lay down to rest.

She scrambles to keep his breakfast from toppling over. “Die!?”

“Ask the older woman—you know, the one whose face looks like she's just bitten into a crabapple—if she would be ever so kind as to prepare me a room on the base floor.”

Understanding dawns upon her features as she looks to his bare right knee. Her face is round and her hair is slightly wispy, giving her an endearing appearance. “Um, I’ll—I can ask—"

“Thank you.” He smiles at her sunnily, and even though she only sees it in her periphery she grows slightly slack-jawed. It’s odd—for being such an anxious girl, she’s doing a remarkable job of keeping him calm. He’s startled by how relaxed he is, considering what a disaster he had been last night.

He feels a little strange, then, still sitting in bed and having this young girl splutter at him from across the room. He swings his legs off of the mattress, bare feet touching the dry crinkle of tatami mats. Several long strides and he’s gently easing the tray from her hands, her big eyes staring at her own feet in what appears to be a sort of mortification. His robe is loose across his chest, more than a decent expanse of smooth skin showing through—but the only other outfit nearby is the kimono still lumped somewhere in the washroom, and as far as he knows the servants have yet to bring up his every-day clothes.

“Aren’t you going to ask me where my husband is?” Tooru asks with a bitter sort of grin, turning away and setting his breakfast on the low table in the center of the room. He kneels at a cushion, the process of lowering himself arduous but smooth. The room is obviously empty besides himself and the girl, and the pristine state of the bed is evidence enough of how tame the events from last night had been. He doesn’t know how the lords will react, if they find out that the marriage was not consummated. That it will never _be_ consummated, not until the day he is pinned down and forced to give himself up.

Distancing himself from those sorts of thoughts, he takes note of his meal—there are slices of juicy pear, cut and arranged in a shape similar to a sunflower. A bowl of rice and a bowl of natto, a small fish cut in half and cooked until brown, soup with white blocks of tofu. He pours himself tea, his mind jumping back nearly half a year—of similar hands handing him china, unforgiving lips sentencing him to the chopping block.  

The girl blinks at him, mouth open as if surprised at the question. “No, Iwaizumi-sama has been practicing with his sword since dawn.” She blushes again. “N-not that it’s any of my business!”

Tooru picks up his chopsticks, first selecting the natto. He battles with the slime that sticks stubbornly to the pungent soybeans. “My dear, I would be very grateful if you would look me in the eyes when we speak. When you stare behind my shoulder like that I grow paranoid. A fighter’s instincts, you can imagine.”

He checks to make sure she’s obeying—and, yes, her gaze has now hesitantly shifted to meet his own. She flinches when he does, fighting the urge to look away. “Yes, my lord,” she replies, meekly.

He likes her. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Yachi, my lord. Yachi Hitoka.”

“Well, Hitoka-chan.” He smiles. “I would appreciate it if you could give me a little tour of the castle today. I won’t be bothered to put up with anyone else.” Another smile. “I find you very pleasant.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hitoka had been able to hunt down one of his trunks as he ate, and had brought him a simple outfit, one of his favorites from home. Comfortable trousers and loose cotton top, a solid-colored sash and not a single embroidered flower anywhere. She brings him a pair of thonged sandals, made from rice straw. It’s still cold outside so he wears toe-stockings to keep his feet warm. 

He changes alone in the washroom, and grimaces as he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror—it’s more obvious than he would have liked that he spent the majority of the night crying. The delicate skin around his eyes is swollen and red-rimmed, his hair disorderly from sleeping with sweat-damp hair. He wets his hands with water and tries to smooth it down as much as possible, but by the time five minutes have passed no results are shown for his efforts. Instead, he gives up and moves on to washing his face with cool water to reduce the swelling.

(The pile of ceremonial kimono continues to lay untouched in the corner behind the copper tub. He wonders idly if it will still be there on his return—if it will continue to sit there for the rest of his days here, a constant reminder of the night his life was stolen from him.)

Once he’s finished with dressing, Hitoka escorts him down the stairs. Now that the sour-faced woman is nowhere to be seen, she is not quite so hesitant in gently taking hold of his arm as he grabs woodenly onto the banister with the other. It’s still awfully brave of her, borderline daring, and it makes him like her even more.  

The compounds don’t appear quite so foreboding during the daylight hours. It’s bustling, alive and filled with people, unlike the eerie quiet of the night prior. Still being the early morning, the majority of them are servants preparing for the day; messengers rushing from one end of the castle to the other, stableboys and gardeners and kitchen workers hauling fresh produce off of carts, lugging them away to an outbuilding where smoke is billowing from a stone chimney in the roof. All of them pause when he passes, at first to gawk in open admiration, then in contriteness at their own nerve. After that, a deep bow, and then they scurry on their way.

It becomes more and more maze-like as they follow along the gravel paths, thickly lined with more decorative greenery and ponds, small stone bridges and mossy statues. The morning air is chilly, and the edges of the man-made pools are rimmed with ice, the leaves of the plants spider-webbed with frost. Hitoka explains that, as she’s sure Tooru is already familiar with, the outer rings of the compound aren’t nearly so richly elaborate. It’s where the majority of the servants live; where the warriors train. It’s where Iwaizumi is practicing his swordsmanship, she doesn’t say—but Tooru can guess. He’s glad that she steers them clear away from the gate leading to the outer ring.

Instead she leads him towards the southern stone wall, gesturing and talking quickly. The more questions he asks, the faster she forgets to monitor her language. She has a slight country accent, and she pronounces certain words with an odd lilt.

“These are the guest quarters,” she’s saying, the tip of her nose glowing red in the cold. “Large enough to house two-hundred head comfortably, and even more in a pinch—"

“Is this where my escort is staying?” Fog is clouding in front of his mouth as he speaks.

“Yes, my lord.”

He can see that, now. Some of his men are performing their morning stretches outside, polishing their weapons or eating bowls of plain rice for breakfast in the fresh air. Some of them are fighters, but more are servants, people who came along to make the journey comfortable and smooth for the nobility. He sees the familiar colors of the Aoba Johsai clothing; the familiar faces.

He turns to her, smile charming and gentle. “Hitoka-chan, could you go and fetch me a cloak to cover my shoulders with? It’s become terribly cold.”

There’s no flinching this time as she looks up at him—her face glows. She seems delighted to be put to use. “Oh! Of course, my lord! I’ll be right back!”

He waves her off. “Don’t hurry, dear. I’ll be waiting right here.”

He watches her dash away, waiting until she’s rounded a curve behind a gnarled pine and out of sight before he turns and observes the guest building. He doesn’t see anyone he’s particularly close with, but all of the men here undeniably know his face—they could probably identify his voice from among a crowd, if pressed. He approaches a small group talking near the door, shoulders pushed back and steps strong, immediately reverting back into his default state of _Commander._

While they’re all looking slightly bored and sleepy, they spring to attention at his approach, feet snapping together in a salute. “Oikawa-sama!”

He gestures for them to relax. “Bring me my captain immediately.”

“Right away, my lord!”

There’s no dawdling, with them. He's ingrained into them absolute efficiency. Several of the servants mingling around request if he would like anything to drink, to eat, as he waits. He smiles kindly and declines, knowing that his wait wouldn’t be long. And sure enough he can soon hear the sound of returning footsteps, with an additional pair in tow—

A pressure is lifted from his chest seeing the friendly face, and even more so when a large hand finds his own, tugging him away from the outbuilding into the surrounding gardens. It’s a short walk, just far enough to conceal the two of them behind a large, winter-brittle hydrangea bush. They crouch down there like they would when they were children. Tooru smiles fondly, his free hand reaching to ruffle a mass of feathery black.

“Tetsu-chan, your hair looks like even more of a magnificent disaster than usual.”

The warm face in front of him is smiling, but not quite as wide had it been if they were in familiar territory. His eyebrows are furrowed with concern. “Tooru—gods, look at you. Your eyes are nearly swollen shut. You look like a newborn.” He reaches to gently take Tooru’s face in his hands, icy thumbs smoothing over the inflamed skin under his eyes, and he frowns. “Was Iwaizumi’s son too rough last night? Be honest, and I’ll—"

Tooru pulls his hands away by the wrists. “I’m fine, Tetsu-chan. He didn’t touch me. Not that I would have let him.”

Tetsurou’s face softens in understanding. It is so good to see him. What has been less than a full day has felt like months.

Tooru breathes on his fingers to warm them. “When are you going back?” He hadn’t wanted to think about it, but it’s an inevitability. Now that he’s safely in the care of Seijou, his escort will need to return to Aoba Johsai as soon as possible. He will be keeping several of the servants with him, but his territory would suffer without Tetsurou, especially now that Tooru is unable to directly assist the military.  

“Bokuto says that we can stay for up to a fortnight to rest and replenish supplies.” He offers Tooru his own hands, and with a roll of his eyes Tooru takes them, bringing them to cup in front of his mouth and to breathe on them hotly.

“Bokuto—is he that awfully loud captain?”

“Yes, and an idiot if I ever saw one. His heart is sincere, though.” Tetsurou grins, flexing his thawed fingers. “But just say the word and I will find a way to stay longer. My irresistible charms will come in handy then.”

“Irresistible charms? Is that why you fail to woo even the gentlest of women?” And then, before Tetsurou can snarl at him, “I don’t need you to coddle me. I will survive this. I will.” He is telling himself that as much as he is Tetsurou. With a shake of his head, he looks around himself—he’s been gone for too long. Hitoka had been moving swiftly, and he’s sure that his disappearance must be worrying her. “I should be getting back soon. The dear one is sure to have returned by now.”

They stand from their crouch, Tooru’s knee protesting loudly. Tetsurou lays a firm hand at his hip to steady him, something twinkling playfully in his expression. “If you find yourself without your beloved later this evening and grow lonely, slip away and visit me. We can go terrorize the kitchens together.”

Tooru’s responding smile is falsely sweet. “Call him my beloved once more and I’ll personally see to it that you’re hanged.”

Tetsurou grins, all pointed canines and mischievous eyes. “I’m glad to see that one night as a married man has not made you any less ornery.”

“If my father is anything to go by, it will only worsen with age.”

At the mention of Tooru’s father, the bright eyes darken considerably. “Ornery is not the word I would use to describe that coward.”

“It would serve you well to watch your tongue, Tetsurou. You are standing just on the edge of mutiny,” Tooru chides, though he doesn’t negate those words. Instead he takes a moment to brush out his top and trousers of any wrinkles, battling against a shiver. He hadn’t been lying to Hitoka before, about the cold. It’s setting into his bones and making him long for the steaming water in a copper tub.

Tetsurou follows him all the way back to the outbuilding, the two of them easily falling into step. “I’m serious, Tooru. Come and see me, whenever you want. I will be glad to see you.”

“And I will take you up on that offer, I promise. But for now I must focus on what I was sent here to do. I will not let my sacrifices go to waste.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hitoka is waiting for him where he told her he’d be, a length of warm-looking cloth clenched in her hands, nervously eyeing Tooru’s entourage. Most of them are observing her with friendly interest, but upon noticing Tooru’s reappearance they quickly return to their morning duties.

“My apologies, Hitoka-chan. I had to discuss business with my captain.”

Hitoka looks decidedly no less anxious at Tooru’s return, which surprises him. Her fingers are twisting nervously in the woolen cloak, her feet shuffling in place. Her entire face is pink now, with the cold and with the exercise of running to the keep and back. Yet she makes the effort to bow shakily to Tetsurou, wisps of hair moving to hide her face. "H-hello, my good sir! I mean, good morning to you! How do you do!" 

Tetsurou raises an amused brow at Tooru. "A pleasure," he replies, tipping his head. He sends Hitoka a smirk that has her flushing to her roots before he begins strolling back to the outbuilding at a leisurely pace. He barks a few orders at the men loitering outside, and they scramble to hastily comply. Tetsurou is firmer with his orders than Tooru is, but he is infinitely more kind. His influence with be invaluable in the coming days as the two factions begin the merge.

Small fingers are still tangling and untangling, and Tooru frowns. Her nervousness is contagious, and he's beginning to catch a similar uneasy feeling. _Maybe it's the soldiers._ He steps back the way they had come, and she follows automatically, reaching up to drape the cloth across his shoulders as they move. He clasps the edges, tucking it more securely against the nape of his neck. Yet as they walk further into the heart of the inner ring and away from the southern wall, she continues to look more and more distressed, even without the slightly predatory leers of his men. He stops, beside one of the small waterfalls tumbling into a small pool. He looks down at her, the tone of his voice gentle. “What is it, Hitoka-chan?" Her eyes dart up to meet his, her lips raw from biting and stinging cold. "You look as if you are about to burst.”

He doesn't even get a moment to prepare himself. At his prompting, her words come tripping out over themselves, mushing together and difficult to understand with her accent. But he does understand, and he wishes that he didn't. "I crossed paths with the young Iwaizumi-sama on my way back from the keep," she blurts, gaze flickering fearfully. The breath catches in his throat. "He has requested that you meet him back in his room in an hour."

 _His room. My room._ Our _room._

He had nearly forgotten in seeing Tetsurou, and spending the morning with Hitoka, what exactly his sacrifice had entailed. The breakfast in an empty chamber, the unfamiliar grounds, the near parting of a dear friend—it was all because of one reason, one man. _My husband. My husband wishes to see me._

He looks out at the stone walls, at the slits made to repel attackers with arrows, the platforms with which to pour hot sand and oil. A fortress made to keep people out, and he would give anything to leave.

“Why don’t you tell my husband,” Tooru says slowly, pleasantly, “that I would be more than happy to meet him on the condition that he carry me up those godforsaken stairs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter they'll actually interact. when i say slow burn i MEAN slow burn. enjoy the tension ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr dot com](http://ohhotlamb.tumblr.com/)


	3. europa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”
> 
> “There is very little that I would enjoy more than disappointing you.”

Tooru isn’t wholly sure how accurately his message was conveyed.

On one hand, Hitoka is mousy and the perfect image of subservience; he finds it difficult to imagine her deviating from his orders by even a single syllable. This, of course, leaves him with the other mental image of her swearing at the young lord. He would find it funny if he didn’t worry for her safety; he would feel terrible if her aversion to disobedience led to her untimely death.

But she returns to him with her head still attached firmly to her shoulders, albeit with slightly more tremble in her limbs and a paleness to her face. This leads him to the conclusion that his message was delivered, though in not so many words. She confirms as much, quickly excusing herself to kneel nearby and relieve her fawn-like legs. And there she remains, her hands pressed to her folded knees, and her fingers tap an irregular dance there. He watches from the corner of his eye, not letting any underlying emotion slip through.

Because his stomach continues to be a toxic mess, something he’s hoping doesn’t continue to be a reoccurrence his entire time here. He has no idea why Iwaizumi would like to meet with him; after all, he’s only just arrived. What business could not wait until he’s better settled himself? It’s entirely inconsiderate. Typical of a mannerless barbarian.

The hour passes sluggishly, and he spends his time shooting down offer after offer of beverages and fingerfoods as he waits, and he’s only accepted tea if only to make the servants feel useful. Now he’s just waiting for Iwaizumi to finish whatever it is he’s doing—perhaps bathing, perhaps changing into fresh clothes after a morning’s sword practice. Maybe he’s not doing anything at all and is simply making Tooru wait as a unique form of torture. He would not place it beyond him.

He waits in one of the sitting rooms on the base floor, and he plans on being there indefinitely, stairs be damned. Personally, he doesn’t think he’d mind too much if Iwaizumi decides, last-minute, to not show up. Besides his nervousness and the annoyance that is the serving staff, it’s a comfortable area whose design reminds him more of home than the rest of the castle. The beams are all made from light-colored wood, the sliding doors decorated in scenes touched with gold leaf. The tatami mats share with him a nostalgic smell that makes a deep part of his chest ache.

Unfortunately, his prayers go unanswered. The first sign that his husband arrives is that Hitoka gasps and immediately presses her forehead to the floor in prostration. The second is a loudly clearing throat, and Tooru twists his neck around—

“Oikawa.”

“Iwaizumi.”

“I thought I told you to meet me in our room.”

 _Stubborn, bull-headedness._ Tooru _knows_ that Iwaizumi understands his predicament in full; he knows why Tooru wished to meet here. He’s pretending, conveniently, that his memory of a conversation less than a day ago has escaped him. Why? Is he aiming to humiliate? Does he desire a verbal joust so early in the morning? Tooru smiles nicely. “Well, I’m sure you’re aware that my, ah, mobility isn’t quite as good as it used to be. If you wish to speak with me, then let’s speak here.”

Iwaizumi’s already shaking his head before Tooru even finishes. “This conversation needs to be kept private, and our room is the only one that I know to be utterly secure.”

This is what he gets for attempting civility? Not even an attempt at compromise? “Then I suppose that leaves us little choice. Either you stuff me in the lift, or you must carry me up the stairs.”

Iwaizuimi seems to mull that over for a moment. “Very well. Yachi. Where is the lift located? In the servants’ quarters?”

She gapes at him, open-mouthed, letting out unintelligible syllables.

Tooru scowls. “Goodness. And here I thought you didn’t have a sense of humor.”

Angry, narrowed eyes bore into him. “How arrogant of you to think you know everything about me after a single night of a sham marriage. Fine, then.” He sweeps around, striding with long, powerful steps out of the sitting room and towards the central foyer. He calls over his shoulder. “If you insist, then come. I assume your crippled body will be able to make it this far, at least.”

Red boils behind Tooru’s eyes, so strongly he chokes on it. “ _Damn that man.”_

“O-Oikawa-sama? If it helps you, please, take my arm—"

Tooru ignores her, lurching to his feet gracelessly, pins and needles making the motion doubly painful. But he follows after Iwaizumi, grinding his teeth and wondering where his sword has been kept, for he would love nothing more than to run the blade through the back in front of him.

Servants are nearly diving out of the way as the two of them stalk down corridors, pressing themselves up flat against the wall as they pass, blatant fear in their eyes. He can’t see for himself, but he can feel the fury rolling off himself in murderous waves. He can hear Hitoka whispering fervent apologies as she goes. Tooru doesn’t let his eyes leave that back—broad, muscular. There’s a blurry memory of stick-thin limbs and a lingering taste of fruit, but it’s gone just as quickly as it comes. He tastes iron in his mouth instead. He has to deliberately slide his teeth away from his bottom lip, tongue smoothing over the cracked skin.

Iwaizumi doesn’t walk in the direction of the main staircase in the central foyer, like Tooru expects. Instead, he takes an abrupt hard left into a small, dimly lit hallway right before they hit the main chamber, and as Tooru mulishly follows him Hitoka makes a soft noise of dismay, her feet pitter-pattering as they have to make twice as many steps as the other two to keep up. These passageways are less immaculate than what Tooru’s grown accustomed to; there is the odd spiderweb at the corners, bits of debris scattered on the ground at the edges. A few more senseless turns and then Iwaizumi stops at a near-invisible wooden door built into the wall. He swings it open to reveal an alternate staircase, dark and with wooden planks for steps. It’s shabby-looking and smells slightly damp. It’s clearly meant to be used by the servants.

“What is this,” Tooru asks, half to himself.

“Oh, good. You have not lost your leg on the way over.”

“What is this?” Tooru repeats, face swung to Iwaizumi. “Is this a staircase meant for the help? And you expect _me—_ "

“Would you prefer to be seen so helpless in front of the entire faction? Not just servants—but my soldiers and generals as well? Do you dare to accuse me of being too thoughtful?”

Tooru opens and closes his mouth.

Iwaizumi bends his knees, back facing Tooru and hand beckoning behind him. “Get on my back.”

“No.”

“I am not going to carry you like a maiden. Get on my back, or I will stuff you in the servants’ lift like you so kindly suggested.”

Tooru’s fingernails dig into his palm. He takes a deep, calming breath— _it would displease Father if I killed my husband now._ Another moment of deliberation, and he steps forward; he drapes his body across Iwaizumi’s back, arms winding over his shoulders to clasp in front of his clavicles. His knees splay to either side of Iwaizumi’s waist, and he grimaces when Iwaizumi’s hands reach to hold onto the backs of his thighs. Then he’s rising, Tooru rising with him. Tooru’s nose is very close to Iwaizumi’s hair. It smells clean. 

“Don’t think that this gives you permission to do whatever you’d like with my body.”

Iwaizumi begins stepping up the wooden planks, no notable change in his breathing. But they still have five flights to go, with Tooru’s weight on his back. Without looking, Tooru knows Hitoka is close behind. Iwaizumi doesn’t reply.

“I won’t sleep with you,” Tooru insists.

Iwaizumi sighs. They round the landing of the first flight and begin the second. His breath still has not faltered. “I don’t know what terrible things you’ve heard of me, but I have no desire to take you to bed.”

“You seemed rather fixated on it yesterday.”

He remembers the pointed glance towards their honeymoon bed, the dread coiling ruthlessly in his tender stomach.

“I apologize if wanting to scavenge what little meaning this marriage has offended you. It won’t happen again.”

“Hmph.”

“You sound disappointed.” Amazingly, there is a smile in his voice. They round the second landing, Iwaizumi making quick work of the third flight. There isn’t any sweat beading on his neck that Tooru can see.

“You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

“There is very little that I would enjoy more than disappointing you.”

Third landing, fourth flight. Tooru can feel Iwaizumi’s body heat through the fabric between their bodies. He is so warm. 

Revulsion.

“Then you must be thrilled. I have never been more disillusioned by someone in my entire life.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

After that, they are silent the rest of the way, Tooru quietly simmering with barely controlled homicidal rage. Iwaizumi makes it worse by hardly being out of breath, which irks Tooru to no end because _I used to be able to do this, too._ He used to be strong, too. He had never even _thought_ to see the ability of climbing stairs as a blessing; he had never taken the time to be grateful for what he had, before that day he lost it all. Wrongly, unfairly— _stolen_ from him. He makes himself feel better by fantasizing about the day his sword will slice like butter through a thick neck, revenge served sweetly like candied fruits on a platter.

“Yachi. Stay out here, and don’t let anyone else come in. Understand?”

Tooru snaps out of his bloody fantasies, realizing that they’ve already reached the door to their bedroom. He turns his neck to look down at Hitoka. Her face is hidden behind a curtain of her fine hair as she bows. “Yes, my lord.”

One hand is released from Tooru’s thigh to slide open the door, and it is quickly returned to avoid the leg from slipping. Iwaizumi strides through and Yachi closes it behind them. With surprising gentleness, Iwaizumi lowers Tooru down back to his feet. His hands remain reaching behind himself, steadying Tooru’s hips, until feet softly touch the floor. Then he’s taking the few steps necessary towards the raised center and flopping himself down on the floor mattress, face-first, groaning as he does. Tooru watches him wide-eyed. Are they really both men of noble blood? Were they really raised with the same expectations? Iwaizumi rolls until his back is pressed flat, legs splayed and arms crossed under his head. His eyes remain closed.

Infuriatingly, he does not seem affected by the walk up here at all.

“If I’m sleeping in here, where are you sleeping?” Tooru asks, belatedly. He hadn’t thought (hadn’t cared) where his husband had disappeared to the night before, but thinking it about it now he must have slept _somewhere._

Iwaizumi doesn’t open his eyes. “There is a guest room down the hall. Your stomach could roar and I’d hear it.”

That doesn’t comfort Tooru in the slightest. He’d at least have liked to have the floor free to himself. “Lovely,” he says. It is clear he finds it anything but.

Iwaizumi sits up, his hand roughly rubbing through the black spikes of his hair. He looks tired. “I have little patience for your unpleasant personality this morning. May we skip forward to the conversation I had envisioned?”  

“By all means.” Tooru finds himself again at the low sitting table, at the same cushion. He allows himself to sit cross-legged this time, to alleviate the pressure that would occur by kneeling. Glancing away, he notes (later than he'd care to admit) that the bedroom is nearly bare. There is the mattress, yes, and a small collection of wooden furniture: a chest of drawers for clothing, the sitting table, and a single rickety-looking chair sitting on its lonesome in the far corner. Tooru’s bedroom in Aoba Johsai had been decorated sparsely, but at least he had included personal touches, whether it had been several illustrations he found beautiful that were hung on the walls, or keepsakes from his travels. In the warmer months he would keep vases of flowers for their color and perfume. But this room is as impersonal as if it had never been lived in. There are no signs that Iwaizumi had made a home for himself here at all.

_He may be even duller than I feared._

Tooru looks back over, brows furrowed as he works on forming the question, but he finds that Iwaizumi has mirrored him and has glanced away, staring outside the window at the late morning sun. The light seems to be absorbed by his skin, and it glows faintly, brown with an undertone of yellow. When he speaks, he speaks quietly. “Representatives from the township of Karasuno are coming to Seijou for a meeting within five days’ time," he says. "They are friendlier with Datekougyou than we are, like Aoba Johsai. I understand that you’ve had close relations with them in the past.”

Something ugly and bitter rears its head in Tooru’s chest. He feels his lip curling without his consent, and he forces it back down. “We have done business together, yes. Datekougyou is Aoba Johsai’s main source of imported iron.”

“That is not what I asked. What about Karasuno? Have you done business with them?”

Tooru fidgets, eyes shifting once he finally feels Iwaizumi’s probing gaze on his face. “Of a sort.”

“Oikawa. I would appreciate it if you didn’t force me to chase you in circles.”

The force of those eyes on his face makes him feel too warm, too vulnerable. He still has not forgotten the offer from last night. He has not forgotten the heat of Iwaizumi’s back against his chest.

“Karasuno is very small and mostly useless. I don’t see how meeting with them could provide you with anything of value.”

Iwaizumi takes a deep breath, the air leaving his lungs slow, as if to prevent himself from sighing. “The northwest corner of Datekougyou is being assaulted by constant attacks from a small group of miscreants. They are targeting small farming communities. Stealing rice. Abducting women for themselves or to sell elsewhere, we are unsure.” He looks horribly troubled, and Tooru’s stomach twists. Abductions? His father is in close contact with the lord of Datekougyou, yet Tooru has heard no such news.

“Four years ago I regained Seijou nearly seven thousand _chou_ of land from the northwestern border we share with them. Needless to say, our relationship has henceforth been unstable. But I would like to quell those hostilities, so that we may begin trading for iron. I believe that with Karasuno mercenaries present the people would feel more comfortable having soldiers of Seijou in their lands. Yourself being there would be an asset, as well.”

_Karasuno mercenaries._

Heart beating unevenly, Tooru’s fingernails begin to pick at the grooves in the wood of the table. “Why choose the unrefined soldiers from Karasuno?” he hedges. “Their military is unorganized. Sloppy. Borrow men from my father, instead. It can be his wedding gift.”

Iwaizumi ignores that remark, and Tooru’s gut sinks further. “We want to become friendlier with Karasuno as well. You say they are useless and sloppy, but they’ve shown time and time again that they have their own value.” He levels a look at Tooru. “You are against this.”

“Who,” he wets his lips instead of answering, “is coming?”

“The clan leader, Sawamura. He is also bringing some of his younger warriors, one more notable than the rest. His name is Kageyama.”

Tooru closes his eyes. “My apologies, but I find myself to be terribly busy at the time of the meeting. Please fill me in afterwards.”

“You have been here not even a full day. You have no plans. You are coming.”

“I’m not coming.”

Iwaizumi sounds endlessly frustrated. “Why?”

“Because if I have to be in the same room as that imbecile you won’t be able to stop me from taking his head. I’m _not going.”_ His voice turns unsteady at the end, and fire burns in his throat. Whether it’s caused by phantom pain or nostalgia, he’s unsure. All he knows is that he remembers Kageyama following him around like a gosling after its mother; he remembers the real, agonizing fear when he saw the life of the boy two years his junior, precariously balanced on the head of a needle—

His body had moved without thinking, after that. And he still can’t bring himself to regret his choice. But it doesn’t make the hatred he feels any less poisonous. He could live the rest of his life, never again seeing hide nor hair from Kageyama Tobio, and be at peace.  

Realization dawns in Iwaizumi’s eyes as his gaze focuses below the table—without a conscious thought, Tooru’s fingers have clenched down onto the old wound. “He was the one who crippled you.” His voice is gentle, for him.

Tooru laughs, humorlessly. “He _wishes_ he were strong enough to cripple me. He’s a pup who took on a bit more than he could chew, and I am the one who suffer for it.”

Iwaizumi shakes his head, baffled. “Who was it, then?”

“Sweetheart, I think you are prying. It’s very unattractive.” Sour stomached and a small part of him wondering if he could survive a swan-dive out of the window, Tooru leans back on his hands.

Iwaizumi stares at him. “If you think yourself a leader,” he says slowly, “you’d best show it. No one here is going to put up with your petty dislikes. Least of all me.”

Tooru grins dangerously. “Oh, you _do_ have a tongue on you. Would you like me to show you mine? You won’t win.”

“I want to see everything you have to give me.”

A sudden, powerful shiver rolls through Tooru’s body, leaving him unexpectedly breathless. He stares, wondering if Iwaizumi had intended to sound so forthcoming. By the naïve and blank face he wears, Tooru suspects not.

Ignoring the prickle of heat at the back of his neck, Tooru raises a single brow, pushing as much contempt into his voice as possible. “So you want to go on a journey north with a group of roguish mercenaries in the dead of winter, all in order to fight off some barbarians who terrorize another faction.”

“Yes.”

He tilts his head to the side, patronizing. “Wanting to repeat some of your old triumphs, are we?”

“Yes.”

His sincerity is irksome.

“This is something you’ve thought deeply about, and you still think it’s a good idea?”

Iwaizumi surprises him again by standing from the bed and walking over to join him at the low sitting table, choosing the closest cushion. The exposure to the sunlight has reduced his pupils to pinpricks—it reveals irises of an earthy tone, with more depth than the flat black Tooru had originally thought. “We have been married for a reason. I have heard of your tactical expertise.” His eyes are nostalgically earnest. “I want your opinion. All personal biases aside, do you find it wise?”

His immediate urge is to deny—to shut down this idea before it has time to fledge out. But as loathe he is to admit it, it’s not actually awful. The more he thinks about it, the proposal seems to be smartly thought out; its reasoning sound. And while he can see many areas it could go wrong, they are all holes that could be filled with a bit of tinkering. If it’s dissected from all angles, the journey could be completed safely and successfully. Above all, they would be able to help many innocents.

Ultimately, there’s no real reason to refuse other than his obvious distaste for the architect.

“It’s…not the worst idea I’ve heard,” he mutters, and immediately jumps when Iwaizumi claps his hand together once with an air of finality. His eyes are back to being fire and ice, intense in their frigidity. “Then it’s decided. In five days’ time we will meet the representatives of Karasuno at our gates, and we will welcome them with open arms.”

 

 

* * *

 

_-then-_

 

The orchards surrounding Aoba Johsai are rich with the heavy weight of stone fruits, their skin tender and soft against the teeth and flesh sweet on the tongue. Tooru fleetingly thinks of Tetsurou, of Keiji, the two of them stuck learning pretty calligraphy in a stuffy room, and he pities them. But he had already been through his fair share of dullness for the day; trapped in a hall with a bunch of old men discussing things he already knows too much—and cares too little—about. He’s still only seven years old, but _you can never start preparing too early, Tooru_ , even though all he can do during these meetings is sit, listen, and be quiet. Yet he kept his back straight and regal, and had nodded thoughtfully, so that his brothers might think highly of him. But the entire time his mouth had been watering for a peach, the tops of the orchard trees visible from the council room’s window. And now he has one in his hand—velveteen against the pads of his fingers, ripe juice dripping and leaving a sticky trail across his palm. He might pick a few more for the two of his friends later, if he remembers. But he still has hours before he is expected to return for supper, and he intends to take full advantage of that fact.

He takes another sweet bite and wanders some more, veering towards the very outside edge of the orchard, feet crunching in the old, browned petals of the past flowering season. The sun is growing hot on the top of his head and he is glad for the shade of the branches above. There are the sounds of insects buzzing about his ears and chirping around him, even louder in the older, broad-leaved trees beyond the orchards. He walks along a ridge overlooking a much-used road that leads to the keep, his home; his eyes catch the glimmer of sunlight striking the muddy water of a rice paddy just across the worn dirt path.

“Are you really a boy?”

He doesn’t let it show that he’s startled, that his heart had leapt uncomfortably and that the downy hair has risen all along his arms. He looks back where he has come, head tilting. The boy—small, skinny like a beanstalk, but with exceedingly round cheeks. His face is very familiar. Ah, that’s right. He had been in the council room too, Tooru recalls. He had been seated beside the daimyo Iwaizumi and doing a terrible job of hiding his boredom. Tooru had quietly condemned him for it.

“Beg pardon.”

He’s rubbing a smear of dirt off his nose, and Tooru finds himself slightly impressed that he had acquired it so soon after the meeting had ended. “You look like you could be a girl, but you’re not. It’s very strange.”

Be polite, be diplomatic. Not everyone is as well educated as Tooru is. Not everyone is as well versed in keeping a cool head under any and all circumstances. Others must be treated courteously, no matter how they may not deserve it. He is the son of an Oikawa—he must be the gracious person here.

“I don’t want to hear that from someone as ugly as a snow monkey. Do you pick your hair for insects as well?” He bites immediately at his loose tongue, feeling sorry that the words slipped past but meaning each of them.

The boy’s round cheeks flush, already red from the heat, but he doesn’t step forward to try and hit Tooru across the face like he expects. He does inch closer, however, fidgety and with an arm held behind his back. Tooru eyes it suspiciously—a rock? A snake? Is this some sort of assassination attempt?

“I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s just that…” he shakes his head, nose wrinkling, apparently unable to bring forth the correct words. Instead, he holds out a singular large bloom, consisting solely of pinks and whites, and Tooru is reminded vaguely of the peach blossoms from the previous months. He thinks he recognizes it from a flowering plant near the stables.

“Here, put this behind your ear.”

Tooru doesn’t look up from the flower, stunned. “If the gardeners had caught you picking that, they would have slapped the backs of your hands.”

“But they didn’t catch me.”

“I’m not touching it.”

“Don’t be stubborn. Here, here, tuck it—kind of, right—" Tooru is too bewildered to stop him when he feels the grubby little hand grip into his hair, tugging his head down. A stem is tucked gently behind his left ear, the petals rustling softly against his hair.

The Iwaizumi boy steps back, face redder than ever and looking pleased with himself. “There. Now you’re even pret—uh. The color looks good with your trousers.” 

Tooru snaps out of whatever reverie he’d been trapped in, reaching up to touch the petals with his fingertips. He feels odd, and it makes him irritated. He sneers. “What, are you my maidservant? Are you planning to coordinate my clothes from now on?”

The young boy scowls in response, but he’s clearly more embarrassed than he is angry. He sticks out a hand. “I’m Hajime.”

Tooru turns up his nose. “I don’t believe I asked.”

“The next time I’m here,” Hajime says, “we should play together.”

An _‘over my dead body’_  is already at the tip of his tongue, but Tooru pauses to consider it. The Iwaizumi boy isn’t familiar with all of Tooru’s go-to hiding spots, which would make any cat-and-mouse game very refreshing. And if he were there to join Tetsurou and Keiji, they would have an even number of players for once. They could finally have teams!

Another moment of pursing his lips in thought, and Tooru makes up his mind. “Here,” he says, tossing Hajime the half-eaten peach, and Hajime catches it without flinching. He does, however, pull a face as the sticky juices coat his hand. “If you keep the pit at the center and show it to me the next time, then I will play with you. If you lose it, then I will pretend that we’ve never spoken. Understood?”

He knows he’s being childish and unreasonable, everything he’d been taught not to be. But something in the sharp angle of those brows and the shadow of dirt on the bridge of that nose is making something bubble up within him—something that makes him want to run through the orchard with a loud shout, to roll around in the dead leaves and sprint until he sweats and his legs don’t want to move. It tells him to tease and poke at this boy who looks at the half-eaten fruit like it holds a treasured promise. A part of him is regretting that he’s making the rule to wait until next time, but he can’t have Hajime thinking that he’ll play with just _anyone._

Hajime doesn’t seem to find it as ridiculous. He nods, earnest, holding the peach close to his chest. “Alright.”

It comes out before he can stop it. “And my name is Tooru.”

Hajime looks at him oddly, a small whisper of a smile curling up the edges of his mouth.

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this took so long!!! it was kind of a butt to write and i lost a bit of steam for this story, though i still wanna see it the whole way through! esp considering i haven't even gotten to the bits i started this for in the first place lmao. 
> 
> You know I think ive changed the title like 6 times since I last updated and im STILL not sure if im feelin this one lmao. May change it again someday if I think of one I can finally be happy with, but the story will obvs stay the same! Its whats one the inside that counts <3
> 
> YO YO YO MY FIRST TIME WRITING KAGS AS AN ACTUAL CHARACTER!!! IS SOON!!! SO HYPE!! 
> 
> Also, 1 chou = 2.45 acres


	4. amalthea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tobio-chan,” Tooru sneers. “Come to finish what you started?”

Rudely, Tooru’s awoken by a large, cold, smelly hand clamping down over his nose and mouth, and he’s about to bite down and throw whoever’s leaning over him across the floor when he opens his eyes—

Tetsurou.

The buzzing energy underneath his skin fizzles, and he sighs out his nose, the air blowing across knuckles. Tetsurou is grinning down, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself, and Tooru glares wordlessly. Knees are pressed to his mattress, one on either side of Tooru’s hips, and Tooru would be properly horrified by the audacity if he hadn’t known Tetsurou since before either of them knew what men and women often did behind closed doors.

“Yooph hunnd sphhhks.” Tooru says.

“Oh, sorry,” Tetsurou removes his hand, “what was that?”

“Your hand stinks. Were you playing cards up a horse’s arse?”

A gentle laugh. “I put my mare away in the stables earlier, and I have yet to wash my hands.”

“Disgusting. Get off of me.”

Obliging, Tetsurou rolls off, still laughing some horrible laugh Tooru’s sure he thinks is charming. He sits on the edge of the mattress, only half of his face lit by the moonlight coming in through the window. He’s smiling, and speaks in a hushed whisper, lest Hitoka hears him from across the hall. Tooru had finally been able to secure himself a bed in a smaller room on the ground floor, and he’s impressed it took so little time for Tetsurou to track him down.

“Trouble in paradise? Or does the young lord snore?"

Tooru sits up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What are you doing here, Tetsu-chan?" he asks, graciously disregarding the question. "If you are found here you will be punished, captain or not."

"I told you I wanted to see you.”

“Yes, but I had little reason to believe it would be in the middle of the night like a common thief.”

Tetsurou looks like he could be a thief—he has the smile for one; the dangerous sort of smile that makes even Tooru, who has known him for far too long, feel warm in the face if it’s used just right. He has the sharp, engaging eyes; the dark hair that perpetually looks like he was the victor of a light scuffle just minutes prior.

Thankfully, he’s saving the dangerous sort of smile for another time, and he settles for one that reeks of a childish mischief. “And what do you have that I could steal, my lord? All that was left was your virtue, and that’s surely gone by now, isn’t it?”

Tooru curls his lip. “I will continue to be as pure as the driven snow until my dying day. Leave me alone.”

The feline eyes widen, full lips parting on a silent noise of surprise. “You mean…”

Tooru looks down, feeling oddly embarrassed. “Yes, I mean exactly what I said.”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“I told you that he didn’t touch me.”

“Yes, but I thought…” he shakes his head, inky hair obscuring one of his thin eyes. At the drop of a hat he’s back to leering, giving Tooru a small taste of one of those treacherous grins. “In that case, if it’s because of nerves, I would be happy to help you practice.”

“Absolutely not,” Tooru sniffs. His lips have been taken once or twice by a Tetsurou soaked with a bit too much wine, and they are experiences he would be glad to forget. “And it’s hardly because of nerves. I have simply never been so unattracted to someone in my entire life.”

Tetsurou laughs, pushing himself across the bed so that he can wedge himself between Tooru and the adjacent wall. He lounges on his side, propped on an elbow, and head cradled in his palm. “How cruel. He doesn’t seem to be _that_ bad-looking.”

“He is as ugly as they come.”

The words feel a little thick on his tongue as he says them, for they are lies, and it pains him to know that. Iwaizumi is dull and simple-minded and crass, but as a man Tooru can’t ignore the broadness of his back or sharp cut of his jaw.

(Though it does not make the idea of his touch any less vile.)

Tetsurou shrugs, as well as he can while lying down. “Well, no matter. As far as I am concerned, the young Iwaizumi will never be good enough a man to deserve you in bed.”

“You flatter me.” Tooru says wryly. He thinks of his husband, then—thinks of him sleeping stories above, in which room he’s unsure. Perhaps he’s retaken his own. Tooru’s skin crawls picturing their heads sharing the pillow, the sheets. In a sudden rush of courage, he blurts, “Iwaizumi has invited a meeting with Karasuno.”

Tetsurou stills, his long limbs growing tense. Upon seeing Tooru’s black expression, he lets out a heavy breath. “I take it Kageyama is going to be present?”

Tooru looks down at his lap. “Yes.”

“That’s…” he flounders, “it’s good to know that he’s still alive?”

Tooru forces a smile, reaches to shove playfully at Tetsurou’s shoulder. “I’m glad I can always count on you for the silver-lining.”

The look on Tetsurou’s face is troubled, and the one black eyebrow visible is drawn inward. He’s frowning. “Tooru…”

Tooru twists, sitting cross legged and facing Tetsurou, clutching the bedding over his lap in the chill air. “I will tell you now, since I know you will hear of it eventually. The son of Iwaizumi is planning a journey to Datekougyou.” Tooru takes Tetsurou’s wintry hand, even damp and smelling of horse as it is. “I want you to come with me.”

The response is immediate, and Tooru’s hand is squeezed. “Nothing could keep me from your side, Tooru. It is not even a question.”

“You’re my friend, not my servant. You are not obligated.”

Tetsurou leans forward. “Is it dangerous?”

“Of course.”

He grins. “Good. I would hate for my skills to never have purpose.”

“Tetsu-chan, I want you to think it over. It would mean that the rest of the entourage would head back to Aoba Johsai without you, and Father will sure to be angry upon your late return—"

“And I’m telling you,” Tetsurou says, eyes flashing, “that there is nothing that could keep me. Not the lord of Aoba Johsai, not your husband, nothing.”

Touched, Tooru lets out a wavering breath. “Thank you.”

A glimpse of feral white teeth. “I’m on your side, Tooru. I always will be. I am fond of you even when you are at your worst.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The clan leader of Karasuno, Sawamura, has not changed much in the five years since Tooru’s seen him last.

He’s still amazingly sturdy, broad-chested and thick in the legs. The only difference, if Tooru were pressed, is that perhaps he has several more silver hairs flecked across his head of black. Keeping the people of Karasuno in line is a troublesome job, and it seems his entire head will be silver before the year he turns forty.

He brings with him a group of no more than ten, each wrapped up to their eyes in thick fabric to fight off the winter cold. They all reek of horse, and frost clings to their clothes as they step into the main chamber of Seijou’s keep. The relief is palpable, and they all sigh as they begin shrugging out of hoods and scarves, their cold skin thawing in the warmth of the hall.

Tooru and Iwaizumi meet them in the main chamber, standing side-by-side and wearing clothing just slightly more presentable than their everyday wear. Tooru keeps himself tall, face carefully under control, as he watches the group pass off their winter coats to the servants and make their way towards the base of the main staircase where the lords are waiting for them.

Sawamura reaches them first, face warm and tired. “Oikawa-sama. It’s good to see you again.” He smiles and reaches with frozen fingers to clasp around Tooru’s own, bowing lowly at the waist. Tooru returns the smile, albeit with less enthusiasm.

“Always a pleasure, Sawamura-san.”

“And Iwaizumi-sama, it’s our first meeting in person. A pleasure.”

Iwaizumi tips his head respectfully. “Likewise.”

Sawamura gestures behind him at the group milling about, more than a few of them openly gawking at the extravagance around them. Tooru can recognize all of them by face, if not by name. One of the smallest of the men makes to inspect a painted battle depiction and has to be yanked back by the neck of his top. He squawks, and is hushed by a man with a head already full-grey.

Sawamura ignores them with a barely constrained sigh. “These are the people who will be joining us. Sugawara, Shimizu, Tanaka, Azumane, Hinata, Nishinoya, and…” he hesitates for no more than a faction of a second, but it’s enough for the group to stiffen, for the tall figure in the back to duck his head, “Kageyama.”

Tooru swallows, keeping his expression cool.

Iwaizumi steps forward, not giving any indication that he’s sensed the sudden tension. “You must be very cold. Hot tea and food is waiting for you in another room. Please follow me.”

“That sounds wonderful. Thank you.”

The grey-haired man, Tooru remembering him to be Sugawara, falls immediately into step beside Sawamura as they are led from the main hall. His face is handsome in an effeminate way, and Tooru feels a strange sort of kinship towards him. The rest of the group walks in pairs, some of them talking successfully in hushed voices and some of them failing. The very small man (Tooru cannot for the life of him remember his name) that has paired himself with the sullen figure of Kageyama is one of those—when Tooru had a moment to steal a glance over his shoulder, the boy had been jumping about excitedly, pointing out every little detail of the castle. In turn, Kageyama’s face had not shown annoyance, or anger, but a resigned sort of exasperated acceptance.

_How very odd._

They are all seated in a long room of tatami mats, on plump cushions arranged in a rectangle. The servants come and serve them all tea, and before the drinks have even cooled properly the food is brought out, all presented on individual raised trays—there is hot steamed snow crab, fresh bowls of white rice and pickled vegetables and glistening hills of orange roe. The group from Karasuno are loud as they eat, but Sawamura and Sugawara sit quietly at one of the corners with Iwaizumi and Tooru to speak privately.

Sugawara doesn’t say much, but instead acts to fill the gaps whenever it seems Sawamura is unable to follow his own path of speech. Otherwise, he brings chopsticks to his mouth quietly, his clever-looking eyes going from his food, to his group, to Sawamura, to the lords, and then back again.

Even the way Sawamura sits looks strong, like a tree could fall on top of him and the entire trunk would splinter, yet the man himself would still be sitting straight and proud.  He eats as he talks, but is so polite about it that Tooru doesn’t register the fact that every now and then a grain of rice will stick to his lip before it’s licked away. “I think I understood the majority of the situation from your letter. Terrible business—the women, especially. I can’t imagine how the northern folk are coping.”

Iwaizumi sits close enough to Tooru that they could easily lean over to pluck a morsel from each other’s meals. That being said, he has hardly touched his own food; instead, he’s rearranged the vegetables and meat to make it look like he has, but Tooru notes that anything has yet to reach his mouth. Not for the first time, Tooru wonders what went wrong during Iwaizumi’s rearing.

“The northern people are normally kept safe among the mountains, but it is exactly their solitude that has left them vulnerable. From what Aone has told me, it seems the size of the group terrorizing them isn’t monstrous. The small number allows easy passage along the thin trails. They are able to get in and out with their spoils quickly.” Iwaizumi’s chopsticks poke around absentmindedly through his roe, though he never moves his gaze away from Sawamura. “That being said, they are not without ability. The strongest men of the villages would not stand a chance, even limited as they are. Which is why I think we should do the same,” he says. “Small, skilled numbers.”

Sawamura smiles. “Skilled we are.”

Iwaizumi offers him a small, wry tilt of lips in return. “I know.”

“Of course,” Tooru interjects, shooting Iwaizumi a disgusted look, “an attempt at peaceful negotiation will be our first option. Though that seems unlikely, as we will be asking them for heavy compensation in respect to their crimes. Full reimbursement of all food, stolen goods, and then some, as well as exact whereabouts of the people who were abducted. If that falls through, and it probably will, then we will have no choice but to remove and interrogate them by force.”

“We hope it won’t come to that,” Iwaizumi adds. “Though I know Karasuno is no stranger to battle.”

Here, Sawamura shoots Tooru a significant look, wary and careful. “That’s true. Sometimes it proves to be necessary.”

“And sacrifices have to be made, for the greater good,” Tooru tacks on loudly, knowing his voice will carry across the room. The nearby conversations quiet to a degree, and someone clears their throat. Iwaizumi’s eyes flick over Tooru’s face for a fraction of a second.  

There’s an awkward lull that Sawamura attempts to fill by humming, and by taking a large bite of rice. Sugawara holds his teacup in his lap, thin brows furrowed. When Sawamura is finished chewing and swallowing, he presses his palms to his folded knees. “I have several men that have hung back to meet us on the road. They had a few things to finish tying up for me back home. But they will be scouting ahead for us.”

Iwaizumi nods. “Time is of the essence. How soon can you leave?”

Sawamura smiles, weary. “We are ready whenever you are, although I admit it would be nice to have a day or two to catch our breath.”

“Very well. Two days until our departure.”

Sugawara leans forward, heart-shaped face friendly and open, though Tooru’s instincts can detect something several shades darker lying under the surface. “As Daichi said, we would be happy to be of assistance. Though that does leave us with the small matter of payment.”

Sawamura startles. “Suga—"

Sugawara smiles at Tooru, ignoring the protest. “I’m sure you understand that your word means little, in the world we live in. I trust you, Oikawa-sama, but you are now a part of another household. You may as well be a stranger.”

Tooru pretends that those words don’t stab as deep as they do. Of course, Sugawara’s concerns are entirely valid. Even nobility as they were, there were those that took advantage of their position and were no better than exalted conmen. And while Karasuno has past ties to Aoba Johsai, the rulers of Seijou were unknown to them; Iwaizumi, both father and son. He is right to be wary.

“What is your offer? Keep in mind that there is a high risk involved. Lives are at stake.” Sugawara smiles. “We can not merely _settle."_

 _Whatever you offer us, it better be good._ He could not have spoken more plainly if he had written it in the blackest ink across his own forehead.

“When we inevitably begin the trade for iron with our neighbor,” Tooru says, “one-tenth will go to Karasuno for an entire year. It might not sound like much, but I implore you to imagine the quantity that we will be obtaining. With a land as large as Seijou, it will be substantial. Does that sound acceptable?”

He takes a moment to mull that over—he’s still smiling, head tilted slightly to the side. Tooru smiles back, equally saccharine, and waits until he begins to nod, slowly. “That sounds fair,” Sugawara determines at last. “Daichi?”

Sawamura looks marginally embarrassed, but he nods his head just the same. “Erm, yes. I suppose it does.”

“Good, then we are in agreement.” And Sugawara turns back to his teacup, sipping at it delicately, and Tooru bites into his food, thinking that this man is someone not to be trifled with.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He’s hardly done anything today except rest, eat, and talk, but Tooru is still thoroughly exhausted by the time the dinner is over. The group from Karasuno are all more-or-less dead on their feet after their days of travel, and most are nodding off at the table once the lords have finally pressed their wax seals onto contracts made of thick, official paper.

Servants come to usher them all to their guest rooms and to clean up the mess, and Tooru uses the flurry of activity as a cover to escape. He’s not sure where he wants to go, only that he’s spent the better part of the evening sitting alongside Iwaizumi and he needs a moment to himself. It’s difficult talking of supply plans and possible violent scenarios when he’s dead-set on ignoring a fourth of the party. It’s difficult ignoring someone when their thigh is pressed so close. It’s frustrating, and bothersome, and Tooru just needs a moment to breathe cold outside air and remind himself of every crude word that’s ever left his husband’s mouth.

He finds a long length of shoji doors in a dark hallway along the inside wall of the castle; pushing them back reveals to him an outdoor walkway, square in shape and protected by an overhang, supported by wooden pillars. It’s a lining to an inner courtyard, more of the outside garden spilling over into it. More ponds and waterfalls and the husks of what were once lovely summer water lilies. Stones are arranged in a haphazard pattern, small maples mixed with juniper, branches unkempt. Everything seems less polished—the wooden floors, the long panes of the sliding doors scuffed, almost as if no one was ever planning on having someone important find their way here. He has half a mind to complain, but he can’t deny how good the frosty air feels; how pleasant it is being able to step outside and still be away from wandering, hungry eyes. No servants to bother him, no soldiers to openly gawk, no whispers of his experience in bed because _someone as pretty as himself must make for an excellent fuck._

There’s a sound from behind him, just a soft murmur of a creak. When he turns his head, remembering late that he neglected to slide the door shut behind him, he grows still. For a moment he fears it’s Iwaizumi come to torment him, but then the light from the wall-lantern shines upon a face, and something inside Tooru hardens. The hair is so black Tooru could swear that in the right light it gleams blue. He’s taller and wider across the shoulders, but he’s still a boy. Still a fool, in all likelihood.

“Tobio-chan,” Tooru sneers. “Come to finish what you started?”

His steps are so, so quiet, like he’s hoping if he’s silent enough Tooru won’t take offense by his very existence. He shakes his head, brief anger flashing in the dark eyes that stick to Tooru’s own. “No, Oikawa-san.”

“The time for apologies has passed us, Tobio.” He sets a hand against one of the pillars, watching his own slight fingers smooth down the grainy surface. “Do not speak to me unless it has to do with the task at hand. Do not look at me unless it’s necessary.” He turns to smile at the darkness beyond the fool’s shoulder. “Run along now. It’s time for children to sleep.”

“Oikawa-san,” Kageyama says again. His eyes, once round and young and eager, are narrowed and cold, the color of sweet-fish scales. “I didn’t know you were to be married.”

Tooru tilts his head. “You don’t know a lot of things, Tobio. Don’t let it upset you.” 

Kageyama’s hands curl into fists. “I want—"

“No one cares what _you_ want. Frankly, I think you have enough as it is.” Tooru steps closer with every word, something ugly and satisfied rearing in his chest as Kageyama’s face turns sallow as they stand nose-to-nose, Tooru several centimeters taller. “A comfortable life, yet you carry no real responsibility. You are not tied down in Karasuno. You are gifted with natural ability and all your limbs are in full working order. You have not been forcefully married off to a man who could not care less whether you choked on your evening meal.”

Tooru reaches out, tangling his fingers in silken black hair. Smiling, he yanks Kageyama’s head back, once, before letting go. Kageyama lets him.

“So no, Tobio. I don’t want to hear what you want.”

Kageyama stays silent. His expression is unreadable.

“Goodnight.”

And Tooru smiles one last time, stepping past Kageyama and purposefully bumping their shoulders. Kageyama sways, but his feet remain firm. Tooru leaves him to (hopefully) cry, but more likely that that Kageyama will stare moodily at his shadow until he remembers he’s a stranger in a foreign castle. He’s always been an idiot like that—perceptive in all the wrong ways. Tooru hopes he gets lost and has to sleep on the floor somewhere until a servant discovers him in the morning. The image improves his mood infinitesimally.

Walking around the corner he finds Iwaizumi leaning against the wall, head tilted up to stare at a moth fluttering lazily around one of the lit sconces. He has the strangest expression on his face—pained, and contrite, and angry all rolled into one. _Good-for-nothing eavesdropper._ Tooru barely suppresses a growl. He’s been having terrible luck this evening—and the entire point of going off on his own was to put some much-needed space between himself and his husband. Leave it Iwaizumi to ruin everything, as per usual.

“Did you enjoy listening in?” Tooru spits. He makes to breeze past him as well, but Iwaizumi pushes off the wall and catches his arm, preventing him from doing so. He’s beaten his expression back into something characteristically harsh. “Yes. It was eye-opening.”

Tooru rips his arm away. “Don’t touch me.”

“It is late,” Iwaizumi says, unexpectedly soft. “You should sleep.”

“My room has been stolen by those brutes. Where exactly do you suggest—"

“The servants’ staircase,” Iwaizumi offers, meaning plain. He has not risen to Tooru’s aggression. Maybe it’s his exhaustion, or maybe it’s pity or a combination of the two, but he keeps his voice low, once more pretending to wear a mask of maturity.

Tooru curls his lip. “And sleep in a room that reeks of you? No, thank you.”

“It is late,” Iwaizumi repeats. “You are tired. I am tired. If you wish to lash your tongue at me, wait until morning.”

He _is_ tired. He is tired of being here. He is tired of a loveless marriage. He is tired of missing Keiji, and the stable boys Takahiro and Issei, and the floral scent of his mother’s hair.

He is tired of hating Kageyama, because it is so hard hating someone he used to love so fiercely.

“Fine.”

On a whim, Tooru’s fingers reach to spread across the side of Iwaizumi’s neck—he watches, waiting for a reaction. Iwaizumi’s eyes widen, just slightly, and he grows very still. Tooru steps, once, twice, never letting their eye contact drop. By the time he pauses just beyond Iwaizumi’s shoulder his fingers are laid across the tender throat, the soft cushions of his palm flush against the apple there. Iwaizumi still has not moved. Without another word, Tooru slings himself across Iwaizumi’s back in one smooth motion, and as if by reflex, Iwaizumi reaches to catch his thighs. It is only marginally less uncomfortable as the first time. He fears that his heart can be felt between layers of bone and skin and cloth.

“Bold,” Iwaizumi notes, though to Tooru’s surprise doesn’t antagonize him further. He begins to walk, Tooru’s memory supplying him with the path towards the servants’ staircase. Blessedly, they do not pass anyone.

“Are you planning on making this into a habit?” Tooru murmurs, letting his lips brush the shell of Iwaizumi’s ear, just to see what he does.  

His neck twitches slightly in the opposite direction, although he makes no other indication that he’s felt anything. “Our room is safe,” Iwaizumi says, as if it’s a satisfactory answer. “The safest, in the entire castle.”

“Your room is _boring._ Why is it so painfully bare?”

“Everything I hold dear is kept away from plain sight. Idiot.”

The very thought that Iwaizumi loves _anything_ but his wakizashi is ground-breaking.

Tooru seethes, ignoring the jab for now. “Why? What in the world could you possibly fear?”

Iwaizumi’s tone adopts an odd quality. “These things are kept hidden so that they are not stolen from me. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tooru mimics in a high-pitched voice, and immediately his face twists in distaste. This man truly brings out the worst (most childish, most detestable) in him.

They travel the rest of the staircase in relative silence, and again Iwaizumi makes the trip with little to no effort. He is exceedingly gentle in setting Tooru on his feet once they’ve reached the room. The candles are already lit but it’s far less romantic than that first night; the silken bedding is still spread across the mattress, though somehow being carried through the door on the back of his husband feels less intimate than waiting for Iwaizumi stiffly in a robe. For reasons unbeknownst to himself, Tooru’s hands linger just slightly on Iwaizumi’s shoulders as he’s lowered. He’s slow to pull away, fingers trailing down, to let his arms hang at his sides.

His stomach churns, and his fingernails dig into his palms. Disgust makes bile rise in his throat.

Iwaizumi moves about the room, blowing out all candles but the set closest to the bed. The smoke curls, languid, and the effect is more dizzying than incense in Tooru’s nose. “I will be sleeping in here with you tonight. My guest room has been taken as well.”

He shakes himself, a firm pinch to the back of his own hand. He realizes he’s silent for too long when Iwaizumi turns to stare at him, eyebrow cocked, patronizing. Tooru turns his head. “Very well. Do not touch me.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “Your narcissism is admirable.”

He excuses himself then to step into the washroom, and Tooru, not bothering if his breath smells of seafood or if his clothes reek of the stress of the day, curls himself up as-is underneath the blanket, skin sliding against the familiar silk. He lies as close to the wall as possible without jamming himself into the in-between crack, and he closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep when he hears Iwaizumi come back. His nose fills again with the smell of burning wick as the final candle is extinguished.

“Ah. I missed this mattress.” Iwaizumi says. Tooru doesn’t reply. He feels the dip as the other body slips inside, feeling himself unconsciously tense even as he wills himself not to. "Because of those few days that you kept me banished to the guest room, I mean.” He hates feeling the mattress jostle as Iwaizumi settles himself, the hair on the back of his neck prickling with unease—he feels so exposed. If it came down to it, he doesn’t think he’d be able to restrain himself to only incapacitating Iwaizumi, should he try to force anything. If it came down to it, Tooru would most likely end up killing him.

Against his better judgement, he tilts his head and cracks an eye open when Iwaizumi makes a loud, contemplative humming sound. The light from the lanterns in the hallway bleeds through the paper of the shoji doors, and he can see that Iwaizumi’s staring at the ceiling, hands folded on his chest. He smells of the floral cream that had been presented to him that first night. “Yes,” Iwaizumi says, and he abruptly flings both arms out, one of them smacking Tooru across the face. Tooru, to his horror, shrieks. “It feels so good to lie here again.”  

Tooru jerks upright, spitting like a cat. “I said _not to touch me.”_

“Did you?” The hand withdraws, but in a flash Iwaizumi’s rolled onto his side, his other hand darting out to squeeze the flesh of Tooru’s cheek between thumb and forefinger. He pulls until it stings.

Tooru slaps his hand away, appalled. “I _just said—"_

Iwaizumi sits up as well, looking as amused as one can in semi-darkness. “What I find unfair is how you are allowed to touch me,” his fingers move to press very briefly against Tooru’s throat as a reminder, “but I am not allowed to touch you.”

Tooru is hardly in the mood for debating on what is _fair_ or not.

(He can’t stop, however, of thinking of his lips touching the edge of Iwaizumi’s ear. _Very, very unfair.)_

“Stop!”

Iwaizumi grins. “I don’t think I will. I never realized bullying could be so enjoyable.”

“I’ll kill you!” His fingers itch to wrap once more around his throat, this time not so gently.

Iwaizumi smirks. “Oh, such violence.”

“You slapped me across the face!”

Iwaizumi lies back down, like he suddenly can’t continue to be bothered with their conversation. “That was an accident.”

Tooru throws the blanket off of his lap, moving to get onto his knees and crawl off the mattress. “I’m going to sleep in the bathtub. Goodnight.”

He stiffens as a hand is laid very briefly at the small of his back. “Oikawa, stay. I apologize. I should have known better than attempt humor when I have none.” It’s clear he’s mocking and not apologetic in the least, but the sudden cold air against Tooru’s skin is making the notion of sleeping in a metal tub very unattractive. Slow and begrudging to communicate his displeasure, Tooru settles back down onto his back. He rolls to face Iwaizumi, so that he might foresee any more attacks.

He glares, eyes looking over the face in the dim. They are too close together. Spitefully, he hopes that his breath smells of crab. “You are acting strange,” he says, his suspicion clear. “I thought you hated me. Why are you speaking to me.”

“I do hate you,” Iwaizumi confirms in a murmur.

Tooru huffs, and is about to roll to his other side when Iwaizumi continues.

“I do hate you,” he repeats. “But we are going to be traveling together for some time. We will be sharing a tent. And contrary to your line of thinking, I do not truly wish for you to choke over supper, though I admit the idea occasionally sounds agreeable.” His teeth are white, and glow as a slip of them are shown in a brief smile. Tooru is glad that the darkness prevents the color of his cheeks from being seen. “The bottom line is: I figure if someone is going to make a goddamn effort, it might as well be me.”

So it _had_ been pity that caused that dreadful face back by the courtyard. He had not previously thought Iwaizumi capable of much in the way of sympathy, and certainly not capable of caring enough to act on it. But he remembers a little boy with a smudged nose, and a gangling teenager who had frowned a lot but had scarcely said a harsh word to anyone.

Perhaps (perhaps, perhaps) a wisp of that same person remains buried deeply inside. It was not an impossibility.

Though still very, very unlikely.

Tooru swallows, exhaling. “What a dirty mouth.”

“Oh? Am I the one with a dirty mouth? Those who are dishonest have the filthiest of mouths, don’t you think?”

Tooru bristles. “What are you talking about?”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “The liar does not even realize he lies.”

“Fuck you.”

Iwaizumi smiles. “There it is.”

“Ugh.” Now he does roll over, intent on ignoring his husband until he’s forced to face him again in the morning. It feels horribly uncomfortable, closing his eyes in front of someone who may as well be an enemy. But Iwaizumi’s slow, steady breathing is an easy rhythm to lose himself in. He concentrates on that, on his own heartbeat and breath, willing them to slow. After a few minutes, it works; if he pretends that the body beside him is Tetsurou, or Keiji, it’s a simple matter of imaging himself in bed back home. It hurts as much as it is a comfort.

He’s already drifted for some time, after his heart has calmed down enough to focus on the act of falling asleep. He’s on the brink, in the fuzzy area where any moment now he’ll drop into unconsciousness. But he’s brought back, impolitely, in the form of his name, whispered and in a voice he does not recognize.

“Oikawa.”

“Hmmm.” Couldn’t Tetsurou wait until morning to bother him? What was so important that it could not wait until he was alert? And while he’s never bright eyed nor bushy tailed in the mornings, for Tetsurou, he’d be happy to try. 

“If you could eat one food right now—any food—what would it be?”

Tooru frowns. What a strange question. He is not altogether sure if this is a dream or not, but a part of him can appreciate the warmth all along his back. It reminds him of a golden patch of sunlight, of new spring leaves and a sweet, ripe skin against his lips.

“…a peach,” he manages to mumble.

“Ah.” Tooru knows he’s dreaming when gentle fingers dust along the nape of his neck. Tetsurou has always been needlessly affectionate. “Then I see that much hasn’t changed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so BASICALLY what happened is that theres this scene in like 2..3? chapters that i am so fucking excited for. that alone was my motivation for writing this sucker so fast I WANNA GET!! TO!! THAT!! SCENE!!! so yeah here u go like 2 chapters within 2 weeks of each other which is unheard of. i dont THINK the next one will be as fast bc ive finally started school and i really...probably..should study..most of the time...
> 
> also sorry (not really) about the blatant oikuroo in the beginning i got it in my head of the two of them making out as friends and i got a little carried away. u can't tell me kuroo wouldn't be the best kisser jUST THINK ABOUT IT
> 
> ohhotlamb.tumblr.com


	5. pasiphae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iwaizumi must sit idle as his beloved father wastes away, loving him even after what he has done. 
> 
> Tooru cannot imagine being so forgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay yall LOOK idk what to even say its been like...nearly six months since the last chapter and im so so so sorry for the lonnnggggg ass wait, my life has just been up and down left right sideways etc, i got sidetracked by other projects, you name a reason and i guarantee i have it. but this story is still important to me, i’m still excited for what comes next for our lovebirds (ha ha ) and i’m not abandoning this work, no matter how long an update takes me (though preferably not a hundred years this time). also, i wanted to apologize for not replying to all the messages from the previous chapter - i read all of them and curled up in a fetal position on my bed, completely in awe of how amazing you are. sometimes i just don’t have a way with words when it comes to being appreciative, but i completely adore all of you and treasure what you have to say <3 thank you so so much for your patience and support! i'm a bit nervous to post this after so long and it might read a little rusty but i hope you enjoy it nonetheless! 
> 
> ANOTHER HUGE THANK YOU TO THE DAZZLING [SERAPHICA](http://seraphica.tumblr.com/) FOR EDITING THIS FOR ME, I LOVE YOU! <3 <3

 

_\- then -_

 

“No, no, Tobio-chan, that’s all wrong, all wrong!”

There’s sweat dripping from Tobio’s temple, from the tip of his nose. He’s breathing hard and his dominant arm is shaking. He’s been swinging his katana around for the better part of three hours now, with the addition of the weighted belts strapped around his wrists. Even Tooru, who has years of practice on Tobio, would be showing his exertion at this point.

But he doesn’t let his movements slow, pushing the exhaustion to the side as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience. It’s one of the reasons Tooru loves this boy as if he were a brother—he never seems to grasp when enough is enough.

“You’re over-committing your downward cuts. I appreciate your enthusiasm, but it would be far too easy to redirect. Come now, Tobio, these are the _basics.”_

“I apologize, my technique has been careless today.”

Tobio raises an arm to mop under his fringe with his forearm, letting out a frustrated sigh. Fatigue weighs down his eyes. He would never voluntarily call for a break—no, he’s far too stubborn for that. He would rather work himself into the ground until heat stroke claimed him.

So Tooru makes the decision for both their sakes. He claps his hands together, tacky with sweat of his own. “Alright, it’s time for a break.”

It doesn’t help that the day is scorching. The sun is merciless, the heat making Tooru’s hair heavy. A long drink of water is exactly what he craves right now. It would do them both some good—it would help the shakiness of Tobio’s limbs, and replace some of the water that’s currently running in a stream down the dip of Tooru’s spine.

Tobio shakes his head, black strands sticking stubbornly to the damp skin of his forehead. “I’m fine,” he says, and Tooru barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes.

“Yes, _you_ may be, but my voice is hoarse from shouting at you all morning.”

“I’ll keep practicing,” Tobio insists. “You may leave.”

Tooru narrows his eyes. Tobio’s mouth falls open. “That wasn’t an order,” he adds, hesitantly.

“I should hope not.”

He looks down, as submissive as someone with a skull as thick as his could be. With a long, suffering exhale, Tooru wraps an arm around the boy’s sweaty neck, bringing him in close and gently knocking their heads together. “You’ll never be half as good as me if you don’t take what I say to heart.”

Tobio frowns, then nods. “Yes, Oikawa-san.”

“I love it when you’re obedient like this,” Tooru coos. “Tell me I’m the best.”

“You’re the best.”

He doesn’t smile when he says it. There is no hesitation, or shyness, because Tooru knows that he genuinely believes it to be true. Tobio regards the young lord in front of him like one would an idol, and the resulting affection Tooru feels is disarming. His chest is warm to match his flushed face.

It’s a feeling he wants to share, so he grins over his shoulder. Tetsurou is lounging on his side (as he is wont to do) underneath the overhang of the outdoor walkway—his summer yukata is brazenly open across the chest, the hem hitched clear to his upper thighs, but it is like Tetsurou to never care for being the source of scandal. One of his legs dangles over the edge; he’s lazily cooling himself with a decorative fan, undoubtedly one he stole from Tooru’s room. He’s been alternating his attentions between watching their ongoing battle and the inside of his eyelids, dozing like an overheated cat beneath the shade of a maple.

Now, his narrowed eyes are open, albeit barely, and he regards the two of them with the air of someone who has seen the same scene too many times to count.

Tooru nudges his elbow into Tobio’s side. “Once more. For Tetsu-chan’s benefit.”

“You’re the best.”

“Now, now, Tooru. That’s cruel, even for you,” Tetsurou calls, a lazy, devious smile spreading his lips.

Tooru clucks his tongue, frowning at Tobio with doe-like eyes. “Am I ever cruel, Tobio-chan?”

The answer is immediate. “No.”

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re the best.”

Tooru turns and beams at Tetsurou, who shakes his head. “I’m sorry it’s come this far, Kageyama. He dug his claws into you far too early.”

“You’re never too young to do great things,” Tooru smiles. He ruffles Tobio’s hair. “I remember when you used to be cute. You used to ask to sleep beside me because your own shadow frightened you.”

His eyes widen at that, the tips of his ears going even redder. “I did not.”

“Tetsu-chan, look how serious he’s become!” Tooru laughs, dragging Tobio over to stand before his oldest friend. He jostles him, too roughly, enjoying the fact that Tobio will essentially let him get away with anything. “Who’d you learn that from? What bad things have they been teaching you over there in the middle of nowhere?”

It’s little more than a village, really. An insignificant town which somehow manages to keep semi-permanent borders. Full of misfits and nobodies, yet they tempt Tobio away from Aoba Johsai’s keep with promises of milk and sweets and the company of dirty, ill-bred children.

Tobio’s mouth turns down. “I like Karasuno.”

“Yes, yes. But you like me _more.”_ Tooru’s smile falters, just barely. “Right?”

His frown deepens. “Why do I have to like one over the other?”

“Oh, I _see._ Tobio-chan’s become infatuated with someone, is that it? Is that what you’re not telling me?”

He flushes, suddenly, his frown becoming a scowl. “I have _not.”_

Tooru doesn’t know how he feels about this discovery—that Tobio’s found somewhere he may enjoy being more than _here._ It leaves a sour taste in his mouth, stomach bubbling with it. He knows what the emotion is called, but has no desire to give it power by acknowledging its name. Instead, he forces his grin to grow sly, leering at Tobio like he’s seen the stable boys stare at the servant women as they hull rice outside the kitchens. “There’s no other explanation! Come, Tobio-chan. Let’s fetch ourselves a drink, and I want you to tell me _all_ about it!”

And with that, Tetsurou rolls onto his other side, slipping the yukata further down his shoulder as he does. It’s an acknowledgement and a dismissal, and Tooru suddenly feels the stifling weight of his own clothing as he walks away. He strips, shrugging out of his top even though his skin is prone to burning. But it’s just so _hot,_ and now his chest feels unbearably stuffy as well. The flesh over his heart is beaded with moisture, and he uses the shed garment to wipe it away—he dries the back of his neck as well, and all down his arms. He tosses the fabric to the side when he’s done, for a servant to pick up and clean for him later.

Tobio trails after him at a slower pace, watching his feet, eyebrows puckered with the force of his thoughts. The weights are still strapped around his wrists, though he makes no move to take them off. The muscles of his arms are lean sinew, still breaking into his newfound puberty. He tends to walk barefoot, a bad habit from his childhood. The dry dust of the training area cakes to the bottoms of his feet, a deep russet brown that encrusts his toes. He looks like any number of the common folk that sell their produce and livestock, and Tooru has to bite his tongue to keep from scolding him. It’s a misplaced irritation, he knows, and he’s been working on directing that irritation in more productive ways. Attacking Tobio with a wooden practice sword has proven to be one of these methods, but it seems the morning of doing so has yet to do the trick to burn off his excess malevolent energy.

They reach the well, and with several firm pumps the water begins to run, cool and clean from the earth. The wooden bucket is half-filled, and Tooru passes Tobio a cup to drink from. The moment the water touches Tooru’s lips, he has to try his best not to guzzle—it tastes unbearably sweet and the back of his throat screams for it. Tobio is intensely examining his cup, though has yet to touch its contents. Tooru doubts that Tobio is capable of doing anything without the utmost intensity.

After some time of silence, of Tooru allowing him to gather his thoughts, he speaks: “The next time you go to defend the border,” he says, slowly, and Tooru pauses in his drinking, “may I come with you?”

There’s an instinctual reaction of panic, of refusal, that rises to the tip of Tooru’s tongue. To defend the border—they could be facing any number of Aoba Johsai’s enemies. Yes, there’s the off-chance that they would be batting away simple groups of brutes that try to bite off a bit more than they can chew (and they are rarely a true danger), but there’s also the chance of—

Shiratorizawa.

Tooru has to fight the shiver that threatens to overcome him as his thinks of Tobio— _his Tobio_ —facing any of those monsters.

Facing the bastard son.

But Tobio’s eyes, which have dulled slightly as he aged, have a nostalgic twinkle of hope, and Tooru bites his lip. “Tobio-chan, I know I said you’re never too young to do great things, but that’s a little…”

Tobio’s fingers tighten around his cup. “You’re only two years older than me.”

“Yes, and I’ve been prepared for these things quite literally from birth. You hadn’t touched a sword until you turned thirteen.” _Prodigy or not,_ a mean-spirited corner of Tooru’s mind hisses, and he immediately quashes it down.

Tobio sets his cup down at the edge of the well so that he can gesticulate with his hands, voice rising with passion as he speaks. “Please, allow me to join you. I won’t interfere. I won’t get in your way. But I want to see what it’s like.”

Tooru sighs, setting his own cup beside the other. “There’s other ways to gain experience. You know there’s the competitions in town, and while of course I could never condone gambling you could easily wipe the floor with the lot of them—“

“Oikawa-sama.”

Tooru’s mouth goes dry. He hates hearing that honorific leave Tobio’s lips. Hates it.

(Because as much as he pretends otherwise, the difference in their status rubs at him, like the leather of a crude saddle wearing tirelessly against his bare thighs.)

“Please.”

Tobio’s parents, buried deeply in the ground at the edge of the forest, their graves nothing but unmarked stones—what would they think? Would they spit at Tooru’s feet for even considering it? But he’s not Tobio’s father, nor is he a flesh-and-blood brother. He’s a mentor—his job is to teach, in the hopes that one day Tobio will be able to become an impenetrable force, a samurai ready to slaughter anyone who dares raise a violent hand against the lords of this land. This had been ordained the moment he was scooped up from the mud, when he was shown to hold promise by Tooru’s own teacher. How will he learn if he is not challenged? How will he understand the danger if he does not see it with his own eyes?

_(He is not yours to protect.)_

Tooru straightens. “Tobio-chan,” he says, lifting his chin. Tobio mimics his posture. “I’m your commander. You understand that, don’t you?"

A quick, sharp nod. “Of course.”

“So when I take you with me to the border,” his voice becomes low, “what I say goes. Do you agree to my terms?”

Tobio seems beyond words. He just nods, shoulders trembling, eyes glimmering with it. It fills Tooru’s heart to the brim, and he smiles.

“Good boy.”

 

* * *

 

 

- _now -_

 

He’s bundled up so thoroughly even bending his arms is a chore. Though he can’t wrap anything around his face, because then no one would be able to hear him speak. From atop his horse, he directs; on a journey as long and arduous as this, it involves an extraordinary amount of planning. They need to bring several weeks’ worth of food in wagons, extra horses and weapons, as well as people to take care of such things. Though at the same time, the goal is to keep the party small—this means that everyone, nobleman or not, will be helping with the unclean work.

It is going to be a very long few weeks.

“Tetsu-chan, hold my horse for me, won’t you?” Tooru says, gathering up the reins and handing them off. Tetsurou, who is atop his own horse, takes them and watches as Tooru dismounts.

“Having difficulty being overbearing from way up there? I personally found you were doing a marvelous job.”

“Oh, hush,” Tooru snaps. “We’re missing someone rather important, and regretfully we can’t depart until we have him with us.”

“Hmm,” Tetsurou looks out over the swarm of activity. “I have not seen the young lord Iwaizumi in some time.”

Tooru sniffs disdainfully. “He’s been slacking, leaving all of the work for me.”

Admittedly, most of the preparations had been taken care of the evening before, and spread out over the past few days in order to give Karasuno a chance to rest. But how will this look to their travel companions if Iwaizumi is off doing god knows what, shirking his duties before they’ve even started? It looks lazy and unorganized, Tooru thinks. Trust is going to be key in order for them all to arrive back in one piece—it won’t do if the men are already skeptical of their resolve.

“How dare he,” Tetsurou replies mildly. “Well, I’ll do my best to oversee the work in your absence. Hopefully it does not fall to ruin.”

Tooru wishes that Tetsurou was not so high off the ground, so that he might kick him. But he has to settle for a very dirty look, and then he’s sweeping away, back in the direction of the inner ring, and the keep. He has to weave around men and women that are packing bags of dried rice and beans into the wagons, the yokes resting heavy on the shoulders of oxen. More than once he has to dodge the flicking whips of the horses’ tails, the animals stomping their hooves and muscles twitching with powerful energy, the steam of their breath creating a fog amongst the activity. Everything is nearly ready, but they cannot leave without the command of their lord. He’d disappeared not long after they gathered at dawn, and has not returned since. Tooru doesn’t have the faintest clue where he could have slunk off to. Perhaps Iwaizumi has taken what Tooru had not the stomach for—perhaps he had decided to nestle a harem of concubines alongside his marriage, and they were busy wishing their master a heartfelt farewell.

He entertains the thought, for if Iwaizumi is able to satisfy himself with the bodies of others then perhaps he will never grow to desire Tooru’s own. Yet somehow, he cannot imagine his husband being anything but utterly prudish, looking upon all forms of physical pleasure with disdain, his only delight the warmth of his own fist.

He does not have to linger on this thought for long, as just as he is about to pass through the gate into the second ring and the beginning of the gardens does the young lord pass him by with hardly a glance. There’s a brief moment of surprise that stops Tooru in his tracks; there had been no acknowledgement, no sign at all that Iwaizumi had seen him, though he most certainly had. Was this the cold-shoulder? For what reason?

Recovering himself quickly, he reaches to catch Iwaizumi’s elbow, and promptly lets out a snarl when he’s shrugged off—he wants to point out the hypocrisy in the action, but it’s then that he notices the absolutely foul aura that surrounds this man like a cloud. His entire body is wired and tense, and a very brief flicker of fear has Tooru hesitate. But before he can allow himself another moment of this absurd uncertainty, his hand is back to clapping over Iwaizumi’s strong shoulder, forcing him to turn around.

“And where exactly have _you_ been?” he demands, tilting his chin to make their height difference all the more noticeable.

“ _It’s none of your concern_ ,” Iwaizumi spits, voice absolutely dripping venom, and it has Tooru rear back as if he faces a viper - this is the first time that Iwaizumi has been so blatantly hostile. He’s rarely pleasant, but he had never gone beyond a lowly simmering anger.

The effect is jarring. Like his fingers had been wrapped around an iron brand fresh from the embers, Tooru snatches his hand back with a full-body flinch, and before he can even blink Iwaizumi is disappearing among the crowd, just a flash of his heel as he ducks behind the bulk of an ox without a parting word.

_He’s gone._

Tooru frowns indignantly, feet unwilling to chase, to uproot from where he stands. There’s a very brief flutter of something in his stomach, something like unease. What was _that_ about? Was one of Iwaizumi’s imaginary concubines being unruly? It couldn’t be because of Tooru himself—they had scarcely exchanged a single word since the night they shared a room. The next morning had been silent, for when Tooru awoke the mattress beside him was cold, the heat of another person having long been absent.

Stress, then? Had he skipped breakfast? Or had he instead eaten something disagreeable to his stomach? The possibilities were endless, and Tooru could think himself in circles, analyzing and re-analyzing, thoughts returning to the flash of dark eyes, an unnamable emotion leaving them wild and desperate.

“It’s not because of you,” says a small voice, very suddenly beside him, and he carefully does not jump. He glances down, unsurprised to find the mousy head of Hitoka, staring at the spot where her lord had vanished.

“How can you be so sure?”

She tugs on his sleeve, and he bends down so that she can more easily whisper into his ear.

“The young lord often visits his bedridden father,” she breathes, voice drenched with something like resigned sadness. “I imagine he’d wish to say goodbye, as there is a chance the daimyo Iwaizumi does not live to see his son return.”

Her eyes are downcast when he pulls away, and it is not out of mindfulness of her station. The daimyo—Tooru has only had very fleeting thoughts of the father-in-law he has yet to meet. He often forgets about his existence entirely.

 _“Iwaizumi is on his way out,_ ” Tooru’s own father had once told him, as easily as if he was talking about the weather. A lifetime ago. _“A disease— the physicians aren’t sure what. But he coughs up more blood each day. He doesn’t have long.”_

Death was a fact of life, one that Tooru had not experienced since the passing of his maternal grandfather many years ago. But that had been expected, and he had aged gracefully. It had been due course. But this was a relatively young man, and he’d be leaving the massive burden of an entire faction on his son’s back. His death would be a heavy loss, possibly in more ways than one.

Does Iwaizumi love his father? Would his death bring wetness to the edges of his eyes, a hollow grief to the center of his chest?

( _Like the love I used to have, before I became a flesh-and-blood marionette.)_

“He was in a foul mood,” Tooru says. “Does the daimyo currently lay on his deathbed?”

“No,” Hitoka shakes her head. “The lord has good days and bad days—today seems to be one of the latter. Of course, I have never been allowed to see him. I’ve learned all of this from the others.”

It’s then that a sharp whistle cuts through the air, causing Hitoka to flinch and more than one horse to jerk uneasily. A call is thrown out from the front, one that is echoed down the line. The last saddlebags are secured and the remaining men and women mount their animals, the excess servants extracting themselves to watch from a safe distance.

“It seems we’re leaving now,” Tooru murmurs, half to himself. He’ll have to walk around to the front in search of Tetsurou and his horse.

Hitoka appears to dither for a moment before passing him a small wrapped package. He takes it, not knowing what it could be. Her cheeks are pink, and she bows. “Good luck, Oikawa-sama. Please return safely.”  

He looks down at the parcel in his hands. “What is this?”

“It’s, um, rice cakes. With red bean paste on the insides. Just something sweet to eat with your supper tonight.”

His eyebrows rise. “Did you make them yourself?”

Her mouth twists. “Y…yes, but don’t worry! I’m not a terrible cook, I promise they’re edible!”

Warmth blooms in his chest then, a tangible fondness that spreads his lips into a genuine smile (and those come so rarely these days). He reaches to take hold of one of her icy hands. “Hitoka-chan, you are just about the best thing to have come out of this situation.”

“My lord?”

He stoops down then, and, not caring who sees, presses a kiss to the back of her hand. When he pulls back, he winks. In return, her eyes glaze, and she looks to be clinging onto consciousness.

“I shall do my best to bring everyone home safe and sound. Please keep things together here until I return.”

She takes a deep breath, more of a gasp for air. She blinks rapidly, jaw slackened. “I… of course. It will be just as you left it.”

She is a servant, and one he has known for little more than a fortnight. But she is a small spot of warmth here, one that will stay even when Tetsurou leaves him to return to their own lands. She has become a friend, though he dare not say the word.

Instead, he grins, and refrains from patting her head.

“I would expect nothing less.”  

 

* * *

 

 

There is an advantage to leaving in the dead of winter. It has been a dry season, which means that the road they follow is neither dusty (as it would be during the summer months), nor is it slick with the mud that comes during the heavy rains. The wheels of the wagons follow the ruts already carved into the frozen earth, the hooves of the animals only slipping every so often on a patch of icy ground. Frost clings to the edges, keeping the brown grass that lines the road stiff and brittle. Trees that once fanned out, green and leafy, are now naked, their branches reaching with bony fingers towards the sky. Every now and then they pass a cluster of trees that boast evergreen needles, but for the most part it is all very brown, muted greys and blues.

It would be boring, if Tooru weren’t already used to traveling. He knows how to keep his mind occupied. And normally, it helps that he rides alongside Tetsurou—a lover of competition, he can create a game out of anything. Riddles, tongue twisters and word puzzles—a master of _shiritori,_ though he usually saves that one for when the atmosphere needs livening. He mixes these games with mindless chatter, idle comments and storytelling, and Tooru is free to simply listen or interject if he wishes.

This is what _usually_ happens, but today there is a change in their routine, and to say he is irritated would be an understatement.

He rides in the front, as a young lord should; Iwaizumi to his left flank, riding slightly ahead and as close to the edge of the road as possible. He rides beside Sawamura, and the two of them do not speak, or at least not loud enough for Tooru to hear over the gait of his horse. To his right is Tetsurou, close enough that he could reach out and shove him off his mount, should he desire to. And he’s considering it, he really is. Because he wouldn’t have invited Tetsurou if he had known he was going to be _ignored_ the entire journey. Bokuto—a simple man, one who appears to use a generous amount of animal fat to shape his hair into something terrible, has stolen Tetsurou’s ear. He had taken it not five minutes into their trek down the well-worn road, and at first Tooru had thought nothing of it. He figured that after a few moments, Bokuto would have said what he wanted to say, and then be on his way.

Except now, gauging by the rising of the sun in the sky, it has been at least two hours. Two long hours of listening to Bokuto _talk—_ about anything and everything, about things that have absolutely nothing to do with them (what food he prefers, his self-proclaimed talent in wielding a spear), and the worst of it is that Tetsurou makes no move to stop him. In fact, he has not stopped smiling the entire time. Tooru believes he isn’t aware of it—but he smiles, and laughs more than he should. Tooru can only stare bitterly at the back of his black head, as if hoping the heat of it will burn right through.

“I’m sorry, Daichi has stolen him from you.”

Tooru blinks, tilting his head—ah, Sugawara. A fox in sheep’s clothing. His eyes are the color of warm wood, a beauty mark beneath one of them. He holds onto the reins of his horse so loosely Tooru feels like he would have no trouble controlling his animal without the use of the bit or saddle. (Has he always been like this? It hasn’t been more than five years, but Tooru can’t remember for the life of him.)

“Who?”

Sugawara inclines his head, the smile on his face deceptively warm. “Your husband.”

Tooru looks ahead, at the backs of the two men riding side by side.

“There is no need to apologize. Time apart for spouses is healthy.”

“I agree. But,” his smile grows, eyes twinkling. “From what I’ve heard, it’s only been several weeks, hasn’t it? Surely you are not tired of each other already.”

Tooru remains silent, his molars grinding together.

“I remember you, from when you used to come to Karasuno as an adolescent,” Sugawara continues, as if the deliberate hush does not disturb him in the slightest.  “I believe we only spoke on several occasions. Never long enough to properly learn each other, though.”

Tooru only ever willingly visited the territory of Karasuno in order to fetch his protégé—dirty-kneed and breathless from running about the alleyways; Kageyama had grown fond of several of the children there, though he had never dared to admit it. But it was evident enough. He would walk from the keep of Aoba Johsai along the dirt road that connected the two settlements, long hours of keeping to the side to allow the wagons to pass him. These trips were usually spontaneous, on days in which Tooru was wrapped up in council meetings, too busy to teach swordplay. And so it fell on Tooru’s shoulders to fetch him the next day, an extra horse tethered behind his own to take his pupil home.

(Of course, this had been a very long time ago.)

And while he had never intended to become friendly with the common people who lived there, he was taught to make allies where he could. So he snooped. He learned names, and the rough organization of their leadership. It was how he first became friendly with Sawamura, the man next in line to become chief of the faction. But he only vaguely recalls this silver hair. There are snippets of memories; Sugawara always in the background, chasing after the village scoundrels as if he were their keeper.

“I remember you as well. A carpenter’s son, am I correct?”

Sugawara nods. “That’s right.”

Tooru smiles, allowing his lip to curl just the slightest bit. A warning. “Where did a carpenter’s son learn how to ride like you do?”

There’s a beat, a lightning-fast moment in which Sugawara’s eyes widen. He’s then looking back ahead of them, and he replies as if Tooru’s words had been nothing more than a gust of wind in his ears. “I think Daichi has monopolized your husband enough. I will fetch him away.”

“That’s unnecessary.”

“I insist. Come.”

He’s spurring his horse ahead before there can be protest, and with an annoyed huff Tooru follows him. Tetsurou laughs loudly behind them at a no-doubt asinine remark by his new friend, Tooru’s departure gone unnoticed. Fine, then. Tetsurou will no longer be allowed a share of Hitoka’s rice cakes.

Within moments Sugawara is reaching across the space between horses, touching Sawamura’s shoulder and interrupting him mid-sentence. He turns, expression inquisitive, and Sugawara smiles genuinely (the difference in his smiles are night and day, and not for the first time does Tooru feel a certain familiarity between them.)

“Pull back. I must speak with you,” Sugawara says, not waiting for an answer before allowing his horse to slow. Sawamura immediately does as he’s told, shooting Iwaizumi a slightly apologetic look. The glance is returned with a small nod.

Those eyes are then fixed on Tooru, and it’s all he can do not to spin his horse around and set back off the way they came.

“I imagine it was not your intent to join me,” Iwaizumi says quietly, dark eyes turning back to the road. Tooru remains a meter or so behind, to his right.

“It was not,” he confirms. He looks out ahead—the road curves, the land beyond a mess of bare trees, and then, further, a vision of snow-covered mountains, the peaks obscured by cloud. “How much longer until the road forks?”

“Sawamura says that we will reach it in the mid-afternoon, and there our guides will be waiting for us.”

“Why we would need guidance is beyond me.” Tooru turns up his nose. “We know where the villages are. And Aone has offered to meet us, hasn’t he?”

“These men come from the northern country,” Iwaizumi replies, voice noticeably subdued. “They will know which passages to take in order to shorten our journey. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not sleep in the cold any longer than we must.”

The cold _is_ bitter, biting at noses and cheeks. Working his lips is an effort, as the wind has rendered them numb. He thinks about the night ahead of them, if they are unable to reach a town before nightfall—if all goes as planned, camping out won’t be necessary. But in the weeks ahead, with the towns along the road scarce, it will be inevitable. Nothing but animal skin to protect from ruthless chill, stuck in a tent with Iwaizumi once more sleeping by his side.

“About this morning,” Iwaizumi starts, awkwardly. He visibly struggles, opening his mouth more than once. Tooru waits, bewildered.

“I took out my anger on you,” he finally says, refusing to meet Tooru’s eyes. “I should not have.”

“Are you apologizing?”

“No. I am simply acknowledging that my actions were unjust.”  

A snort. “How noble.”

“Would you have preferred I offered nothing?”

“Tell me about your father,” Tooru blurts, biting contritely at his tongue immediately after. He had not planned on asking anything of the sort. He had not even realized he was curious. But now that he’s said it, he wants to grab the words right out of the air, if only to spare him from the expression Iwaizumi makes now.

It’s grief, it’s mourning. It’s the same face Tooru made as he rode away from the castle of Aoba Johsai, leaving all he knew behind him.

“What did you want to know?” Iwaizumi says after a long silence. There’s reluctance there, yes, but he does not immediately deny the request. _I figure if someone is going to make a goddamn effort, it might as well be me._ The surprise is enough for Tooru’s brain to form a question before he can properly process it.

“Surely he does not love you as you love him?”

Ah. Another slip of his careless tongue. He watches as, inevitably, rage has those eyebrows drawing together.

“Why wouldn’t he? How could you say such a thing? You know nothing about my family.”

“I was just thinking that,” Tooru waves a hand flippantly in the air, “a man could never love a son he forces into marriage.”

Iwaizumi angrily shakes his head. “He treasures his family.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Why? Because your own has forsaken you?”

Tooru bites viciously on his lip, head sharply snapping away to look at the brown blur of trunks as they pass. He had deserved that. He had been the one to ask. But it still makes him want to tackle Iwaizumi from his horse.

There is the sound of hooves striking the frozen earth, the distant bellow of a laugh from behind them. Iwaizumi draws a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I had not realized that was the case.”

Sincerity. Regret. They have Tooru glance back icily over his shoulder.

“You did.”

“I swear it, I did not. I believed you adored your father.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because you used to. You used to speak of him highly.”

“When have I ever spoken to you about my father?”

There’s a pause, in which there’s a very brief searching look in Iwaizumi’s eyes. It’s gone just as quickly. “You resent him.”

Tooru laughs, though he does not find it funny. “Look at my situation, sweetness, and tell me I have no room for resentment.”

Iwaizumi’s spine stiffens, eyes flicking away. “It is for the good of both our lands.”

Tooru rolls his eyes, though it goes unseen. “Words the daimyo has sewn into your tongue.”

“He cares for me, as I do him. And it is hard, seeing him like this.” He swallows. “He is thinner than you can imagine. He bleeds from the inside. There is nothing I can do for him, so I must watch as he dies.”

Iwaizumi must sit idle as his beloved father wastes away, loving him even after what he has done. Tooru cannot imagine being so forgiving.

He looks out at the long road ahead, breathing in the crisp air that burns the back of his throat. “My father would not care to see me die,” he murmurs. He does not turn to meet the eyes that fix on him then. “For I am already dead to him forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I already said most of what I had to say in the opening notes, but additionally i just wanted to say 1) i love you i love you i love you guys and 2) someone asked if there was going to be mpreg is this story (bc tooru said something about being a breeding sow in the 2nd chapter) and i would just like to clarify that no, there will be no male pregnancy in this fic. sorry if that disappoints any of you!
> 
> see you next time! <3 
> 
> ohhotlamb.tumblr.com


	6. calypso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fear has no business living so comfortably inside Tooru’s heart.

“Get away. You will have none of it.”

He brings the rice cake to his lips, tongue slipping inside to scoop out some bean paste. He makes a show out of moving it around his mouth, humming appreciatively, before swallowing.

Tetsurou watches him as if he holds in his hand the key to immortality. “It was a gift from Yachi-chan? I’m sure it’s delicious,” he breathes, practically salivating.

Tooru smiles, taking another bite. “It _is_ delicious, and you will have none.”

Tetsurou pouts. “Stingy.”

“Neglectful.”

Tetsurou throws his hands up in the air. “We’ve been traveling for a single day! How could I have already neglected you!”

“Why don’t you go complain about it to your new friend. Or maybe you would rather he fuck you?” Tooru sneers, pretending not to notice the incredulous look he’s delivered.

“Tooru. After all these years of friendship, you doubt my devotion to you? Have you really stooped to petty jealousy?”

He shrugs, taking another bite, making sure to moan this time. Tetsurou licks his lips, and Tooru fights a smile. “It is not petty. It is my choice not to share my dessert with you, as you ignored me all day.” He smiles again. “I hope he was worth it.”

There’s unintelligible grumbling as Tetsurou turns back to his meal, the remains being several more mouthfuls of porridge. Tooru pops the last morsel into his mouth, scraping the glutinous rice residue from the tips of his fingers with his teeth. He has one remaining, and if Tetsurou proves to change his attitude by tomorrow, he plans to offer it as a treat during the next day’s supper. But that is only a ‘maybe’.

He inhales, his insides still warming under this roof, patches of his skin still overcome with cold. Tonight, their first night, they stay at the inn of a small town that is a week’s trek to the mountains of Datekougyou. There will be nights in which the road they take does not favor them, and they must sleep out in the wilderness. So he makes sure to be grateful for this time, for the warm cast of lit lanterns and the heat that is trapped inside these walls. It is safe here, and there is chance soon in which that is not the case.

Their first day of travel had been uneventful, and while this was of course boring, it is a blessing to be bored when the alternative is peril. They had continued along for several hours, until they had reached a fork in the road during the mid-afternoon. There, they had been met by two odd men waiting for them. Both wore wide straw hats pulled low over their eyes, and spoke little—only briefly to Sawamura, and then they had retreated to the back of the group, silently. Tooru does not know what had been conveyed, but the group had then been led down the left fork, presumably toward the north. He spent the rest of the evening riding alongside Iwaizumi, though they had not shared a single word until they reached the town just as night began to settle.

The inn they stay at is run by an older couple and their daughter. They were more than delighted to be serving nobility, and made a particular fuss over Iwaizumi—it seems he has stayed here before, and they remember him fondly. By extension, they coo over Tooru, as he is the newfound husband of their favorite patron. He put up with it only because he was promptly served hot porridge and warm milk to drink, and he was eventually left alone to eat in peace beside Tetsurou.

But he is fast growing sleepy, his mouth still sweet from rice cake and milk. The room he is given is, naturally, one he is meant to share with his husband. Before he sends himself to bed, however, he asks the innkeepers for an extra duvet—he gets cold easily, he explains. But instead of adding the duvet to the futon laid in the middle of the floor, he drags it to the other side of the room, fanning it out for himself on the dry tatami mats. He is exhausted, and does not have the energy in him to argue, so he is relieved when Iwaizumi does not question him.

Tooru turns his back as Iwaizumi begins removing his clothes into something to sleep in. He himself takes off his trousers and top, both of which already stink of horse and sweat. He will ask the innkeepers to wash them for him, but knows that he cannot become accustomed to clean clothes so early on in their journey.

“Iwaizumi.”

“Hm.”

Tooru pulls a pale shirt meant for sleeping over his head, the material a soft weave, but thick to protect from winter. “What do you think of Bokuto?”

There’s a pause, the rustle of clothes stilling, before there’s a confused snort. “My captain? Koutarou?”

“Who else would I be talking about?”

The rustling continues. “I just don’t see why you’d care to ask about him.”

Tooru looks down at his hands, frowning. He shakes his head. “Forget it. Nevermind.”

“Has he done something to offend you? Do not take it personally, it is just his natural manner. He means no ill-will.”

Tooru glances over his shoulder—Iwaizumi has changed his trousers, though he remains shirtless, standing over by the mattress. Tooru is about to turn away, an uncomfortable feeling in the back of his throat, but finds that he... _can't_. His eyes refuse to move. It is as if they have been stuck open with hardened tree sap, preventing him from glancing away. Panic has his heartbeat quicken.  _Why? Why are you doing this?_  But Iwaizumi is just so _muscular_ (which is something he already knew, so why should it matter now?). His shoulders are ridiculously wide, skin a browned tone even in winter. His arms are strong, the shape of them thrown into contrast in the dim of the room. His hands (rough and wide, those fingers that once dug into the backs of Tooru's thighs) are holding onto a small silk purse, fingering the material gently, and as Tooru watches he crouches down to set it beside the pillow. He doesn't know that he is being studied so obscenely. Tooru _knows_ he is being obscene, that he must stop, yet he cannot bring himself to it. Even as Iwaizumi meets his gaze, he cannot turn away, by gods, he can’t look away, why—

“He is a good man.”

Tooru sucks in a breath, and he grabs for his dirty clothes. He bundles them together, rising and stepping across the room to leave them in a basket sat in the hallway. He returns to his quilt at the edge of the room, and he tucks himself beneath it, covering his entire head so that is eyes are no longer able to betray him. The floor is hard and bare beneath him, but it is infinitely better than the alternative.

“Goodnight.” His voice is muffled through thick fabric. He can see when the lantern is put out, and the room is plunged into darkness.

“Goodnight.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The taller of their two guides is called Tsukishima, and his eerie, pale eyes are the color of muted gold. His voice is smooth, albeit quiet. He speaks to no one but Sawamura and the man who had accompanied him, called Yamaguchi. This one had come adorned with a series of bells, dangling from the ends of tassels tied around his waist. With each movement, the boy creates music. Tooru cannot fathom their purpose, but he has heard no one of their party question it.

Neither of them ever remove their straw hats, even in the early morning when the sun has yet to make its face known.

“There will come a point in the road that branches into the forest, leading northwest,” Tsukishima is saying to Sawamura, sounding infinitely bored. “The path is thinner and the wagons may have a harder time passing through, though it should be manageable.”

“This will cut the journey down by at least a full day. We are less likely to encounter other travelers as well,” Yamaguchi interjects. He is far more generous with his smiles than his companion.

“That’s good to hear. Thank you both,” Sawamura replies. It is a gentle dismissal, as the two of them nod and then return to their positions at the rear. Tooru does not follow their retreat with his eyes, lest he accidentally see someone unpleasant. So far, he has been lucky enough to not even _hear_ the low grumble of the voice he knows so well, let alone see the face of its owner. This is due to his careful evasive maneuvers, in which each time he catches a glimpse of raven-dark hair in his peripheral vision, he averts his eyes to the opposite direction. Unfortunately, there are quite a few men and women among them with dark hair, and so he ends up ignoring more people than he intends. He has inadvertently skittered his eyes across Tetsurou, even. But it is for the best, he tells himself.

“It seems as if we’re going to be camping outside tonight,” Tetsurou murmurs. “There is unlikely to be any inns hidden out in the forest.”

This is true, and Tooru is already dreading the night ahead. For more than one reason—sleeping on the frozen forest floor, and sharing a tent with Iwaizumi, when he has still yet to recover from his own inexcusable behavior from the night before. The very last thing he needs is to be kept in a cramped space with nowhere to escape. What if he sees a slip of Iwaizumi's stomach and his hormones decide to wreck havoc on his body? The idea has him grip tighter onto the reins, and his mare shakes her head, sensing his unease.

“I quite enjoy sleeping outside!” Bokuto chirps from Tetsurou’s other side. Tetsurou is already turning to match his grin at the same moment that Tooru rolls his eyes. He ignores their ensuing conversation, focusing only on the road ahead, and tries not to give much thought to what will have occurred by the time the moon has risen high in the sky.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He feels like he might be dying.

He had never imagined a cold like this was possible. The shivers that overcome him are utterly impossible to hold back—it is a full-body vibration, his muscles clamoring for heat, desperate in every way. It feels as if he can scarcely breathe. The animal skins that make up their tent keep out the wind but insulate very little, and the warmth created by himself and Iwaizumi are lost in the gaps to the outside. He huddles underneath the bedding that covers him; a thick fabric stuffed with cotton. They lie on a pallet but it is thin, and the earth below them is still frozen. His knees are nearly pressed against his chest. A part of him fears that if he falls asleep, he won’t wake up.

“Oikawa.”

Tooru pinches his eyes shut, gritting his teeth, as he already knows what Iwaizumi intends. “I refuse.”

Iwaizumi growls. “Your teeth chatter like a godforsaken field mouse. It is keeping me awake.”

“How do you stand it?”

“I have always run a bit warm,” Iwaizumi grumbles. There is the sound of rustling, as if he adjusts his bedding to be more accommodating. “I will tell no one, if it is your ridiculous pride that keeps you miserable.”

Tooru makes a soft noise of despair, and Iwaizumi snarls.

“Your stubbornness is wearing on my nerves. I won’t offer again.”

“How did such a kind boy turn into someone like you?” Tooru seethes, fantasizing of the blazing fire that had cooked their dinner, now a low burn at the center of camp. He briefly considers going out to sit beside it, but he has good reason to believe that Kageyama is on guard duty, and nothing is worth that encounter.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Iwaizumi shoots back.

“You probably smell terrible,” Tooru moans.

“We do not have to touch. I know how disgusted you are by the mere notion. Just sharing this space will be enough.” Still Tooru hesitates, and Iwaizumi sighs, wearily. “Just…come here.”

He doesn’t allow himself a moment to think about what he’s doing, before he’s already rolling to the left. Another blanket is lifted and wrapped around him quickly, so that the heat trapped underneath does not escape, And oh— _oh._ The sound he makes then is not one he has ever allowed another human to hear. It is a furnace here, a patch of sun streaming through the window onto his favorite chair, and he doesn’t think he has ever felt such an acute sense of _relief._ He lets out a breath, eyes closed in bliss. When he opens them, even in the pitch dark he can make out the broad expanse of Iwaizumi’s back, facing him. He had turned away almost immediately. Tooru cannot find it in himself to be offended; there is only more relief, in that he does not have to share air any more than he already does.

“You are impossibly warm,” Tooru breathes, fighting his traitorous body that urges him to nuzzle close, to bury his face in the back that is undoubtedly a major source of this heat. It's just as he feared; he is feeling restless again, except he finds himself without the sense of panic, which is something to fear in and of itself. It does not help that Iwaizumi does not smell terrible at all—he smells like leather, and wood-smoke. It is a surprisingly pleasant scent.

“I told you I was. Now sleep.”

“Do you swear not to tell a soul?”

“What would I have to gain from doing so? Everyone already knows we are married. They most likely assume we sleep this way regardless of what I tell them.”

“No one who sees us could possibly think us that affectionate,” Tooru snorts. Iwaizumi does not say anything, and Tooru cannot hear his breathing over the sound of the wind. He doesn’t like that, because he remembers how he had fallen asleep quite easily to the rhythm the last time they had been forced together like this. His fingers creep forward, and he presses his palm flat against hard muscle. _Where is the disgust? Why aren't you revolted, Tooru?_ He can feel the breathing then even though he cannot see it. It stutters for a moment at his touch, and he is brutally reminded of last night, of not being able to tear his eyes away.

“Are you sure about that?” Iwaizumi whispers, so softly it is nearly lost in the air, and Tooru’s own breath catches in his throat. He takes his hand back, curling it against his chest. His face is hot, and he has stopped shivering. “I am certain of it.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He wakes up wretchedly embarrassed.

As they pack their tent away, he finds that he cannot make eye contact with anyone, least of all his bed partner. It does not help that upon waking he had found himself all but wrapped around Iwaizumi, like a parasitic plant sucking the life out of a tree. His husband’s body had been stiff as a cooling carcass, staring at the opposite side of the tent with a clenched jaw. How long he had been awake and suffering through the ordeal, Tooru does not know. He does not know why he was put up with at all. And he is angry, because the other option would be to feel ashamed, and a man like himself should never be subjected to such feelings. So he is angry (embarrassed), and snaps at Iwaizumi more than once throughout the morning, never meeting his eyes.

He falls into line beside Tetsurou as they set out once more, as has become habit. But Bokuto had not wandered off into the forest during the night, and he continues to be an ear-sore that Tooru can hardly stand. He would move, but his other choices are either Sugawara, who if Tooru is being honest with himself possesses a frightening amount of perception, or Iwaizumi, who he still cannot look in the eye. _Perhaps I should go see if Tobio wishes to keep me company,_ Tooru thinks darkly.

“Kuroo, you kick too much in your sleep. I am going to be covered in bruises if you keep this up,” Bokuto whines, successfully shattering through the protective wall Tooru had erected between them. His head turns towards them just as Tetsurou casts a nervous glance back.

“It’s not something I can help—“

“You two have been sleeping together?”

Bokuto’s eyebrows arch at his sharp tone, and Tetsurou’s jaw clenches. “I am not about to be sleeping alone at night in this weather, Tooru,” he says, though it lacks the confidence it should.

“I’d have frozen solid if Kuroo wasn’t there! He kept me _plenty_ warm,” Bokuto laughs, golden eyes lit up and impish, and Tetsurou shoots him a look that goes unnoticed. Tooru feels nauseous, because one would have to be an utter idiot to miss the insinuation there.

“Because of our body heat,” Tetsurou rushes to add.

“Well, yes, and also because—"

Tetsurou points a finger out into the forest, expression beaten into false enthusiasm. “Oh, look, Bokuto—is that an elk? Wouldn’t it be nice to have fresh meat tonight?”

Bokuto’s mouth clamps shut, and his head whips away to stare out into the woods. With the undergrowth gone brown and brittle as it is, it is easy to tell that there is nothing living as far as the eye can see, save for several sparrows flitting from one branch to another. Bokuto frowns, looking vastly disappointed. “I don’t see anything.”

Tetsurou clucks his tongue, looking rather pleased with himself. “A shame. My eyes must be playing tricks on me.” He turns then to look pleadingly at Tooru, the nervousness back to the set of his mouth. “Tooru—"

“Sugawara doesn’t seem to have anyone to talk to. I am going to provide him with some friendly conversation,” Tooru decides loudly, gently tapping his heels into his mare’s flank, urging her to quicken her pace. “Goodbye.”

“But, Tooru—"

The rest of it is lost as Tooru gallops ahead without a backward glance, and he pulls up beside Sugawara, who treats him to a false smile that he easily returns. He finds that he is in exactly the wrong mood for attempting empty small talk, so he doesn’t bother. Sugawara doesn’t try to read the inside of Tooru's skin today either. Instead, he simply stares ahead at Sawamura’s back as he rides alongside Iwaizumi at the front. He remains quiet, and for that Tooru is grateful, for he needs nothing more than to numb his irritation by counting his horse’s footsteps.

Throughout the rest of the day, they make several stops for everyone to step into the forest to relieve themselves, to stretch out cramped muscles and let the horses drink their fill from the stream that snakes alongside the road. The water is horribly cold, as it is melted snow run off from the mountains. But the taste is wonderful on the tongue, and clean as can be. Tooru fills his waterskin with it, drinks the whole thing, and then fills it up again. His stomach feels like ice afterwards but it is a refreshing kind of hurt, and he feels considerably more awake for it. It does nothing to quell the low simmering anger in his gut, but he ignores it—he knows how dangerous it is to allow his anger to fester like this, but at the moment he could care less.

This stream follows the road the rest of the way through the forest, the vast majority straight as an arrow and very rarely curving away before returning shortly after. They reach the edge of the woods by the beginning of sundown, before them lying a vast empty field the end of which can't be seen. It is decided that they will spend the night in the cover of the trees, and Tooru tethers his horse to a nearby branch. He spends some time patting her muzzle and feeding her handfuls of grain before meandering into the woods himself.

He follows the stream until it widens into small pool. He knows the water will be ungodly cold, but he cannot stand the feel of dirt under his fingernails and at the line of his hair. He kneels at the edge, knees crunching in frostbitten leaves, and plunges his hands into the water. He grits his teeth and cups his hands, bringing his face close enough to splash. He gasps, blinking water out of his eyes, and a clean cloth is dropped into his lap.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Tooru takes the cloth and wipes his face dry with it. His skin feels new and raw. “Since when do you care if you smell of horse dung?”

“Since you refuse to even look at me.”

Tooru focuses on scraping as much residue from under his nails as possible, ignoring the burning sting of the water. His skin is turning red. Tetsurou kneels beside him, shrugging off multiple layers from his shoulders and letting them sag from his waist, leaving his chest bare. He holds a cloth in his hand that he soaks into the stream, and Tooru notices how gooseflesh is already making the hair stand up all along his arms. Tetsurou is watching him from the corner of his eyes. “How long are you going to be throwing this tantrum?” he asks, glancing away and wiping the wet cloth across his face, along the back of his neck and under his arms. He shivers, the gooseflesh becoming more prominent.

“When I asked if you rather he fuck you, I did not mean that _literally,”_ Tooru seethes, submerging his empty waterskin up until the water reaches the edge of his sleeve, and watches as the bubbles rise to the surface.

“What do you want me to say?” Tetsurou growls, angrily running a hand through his hair. It stands up even more at the agitation. “This cannot possibly come as a surprise to you. You know that I have multiple partners back home. Why should this be any different?”

“But this is a captain of _Seijou,_ ” Tooru insists. “You are going to be separated in a few weeks’ time. If you grow too attached—"

“Oh, save me your concern, _milord,”_ Tetsurou interrupts sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “You and I both know that you just dislike the idea of sharing me with anyone else.”

“Watch your tongue,” Tooru snaps.

“Am I wrong? You were fine with my partners in Aoba Johsai because none of them ever meant anything to me. Now that I sleep with someone I can call a friend, you begin to find reason to complain.”

Tooru rips his hands from the pool, stowing away his waterskin and shaking the chill off his hands. Some lands on Tetsurou’s angry face, though he does not flinch, and it does not disrupt his glare.

“Fine,” Tooru says. “Fine. Since you find me to be such a heinous _bitch_ , you are free to not concern yourself with me any longer.” He stands, and brushes dirt and pine needles from his knees.

Tetsurou groans, throwing his cloth into the pool in frustration. “You _know_ that’s not what I meant!”

But Tooru is already stalking back towards camp, an angry lump in the back of his throat. His hands flex at his sides, and he aches to hit something. “I hope he fucks you well tonight!” he hollers back. He’s too far away to understand what Tetsurou yells after him, but he doesn’t need to, not to know that he’s angry.

“ _You dislike the idea of sharing me with anyone else,”_ Tooru mutters bitterly. “Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.”

What does Tetsurou know? An idiot like him, thinking he understands what Tooru’s feeling better than Tooru does himself? _What an arrogant whore._

He doesn’t look at anyone when he returns. He is friendless, not a soul among them that he would care to share a smile with. To distract himself, he goes about collecting branches for the fire. He spends some time clearing the earth of debris before setting up their tent for the night, not waiting for Iwaizumi to help him.

This is all to prevent himself from asking the obvious questions: why are you so upset? What has been done against you? Because he knows the answer, and it is a bitter one to swallow, one he has grown all too familiar with over the years. It had started with his brothers, and had only flared up, red and foul, once Kageyama had blossomed. It is an ugly emotion, for an ugly person.

Fear has no business living so comfortably inside Tooru’s heart. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“This is the second day in a row that you have chosen to ride beside me.”

Sugawara’s face is expressionless, staring ahead. It feels to Tooru that as the days slip past, any touch of warmth that he had shown in the beginning leaches into the frozen ground. Back in the days in which Tooru frequented Karsuno to fetch Kageyama, he had been nothing but friendly. Now he is cold, when he is not nearly so cold to anyone else, and it has not gone unnoticed. It’s unprovoked, he’s sure of it—not that it bothers him all that much. But he dislikes being on anyone’s bad sides, least of all someone like Sugawara, who Tooru is convinced is rather dangerous and is very good at hiding it (this of course makes him even _more_ dangerous).

“You said that we had never had the chance to learn each other. I would like to change that.”

Tooru has also been ignoring Tetsurou for the entire day and is rather bored, though he chooses to keep that to himself. Sugawara studies him for a moment.

“I think I know as much as I’d like.”

“I’m afraid I feel differently,” Tooru smiles. “Tell me, Suga-chan—may I call you that?” The slightly murderous look on his face says exactly how he feels about the name, and Tooru feels a mild thrill. “Why do you act as if my aim is to burn Karasuno to the ground?”

The deadly expression melts, and Sugawara laughs. “Do I? My, I had no idea.”

“Please don’t let it worry you,” Tooru assures. “Your behavior does not bother me in the least. I suppose I was just curious as to why.”

He’s still smiling, and he shakes his head. The weak sun catches light in his silver hair. “I trust you, Oikawa-sama. But that does not mean I have to like you.”

Tooru raises his eyebrows. “Oh, so it’s loathing. Please enlighten me.”

“We are as close as a family, you can imagine,” Sugawara says. He turns his head to look back at the small party that ride behind them, most of them clumped together in groups of twos and threes, chatting and laughing among themselves. They are a cheerful bunch, if not a bit noisy. “I myself was adopted into the Karasuno clan. My father—the carpenter you remember—was kind enough to take me in. The others here who ride with us are very similar. Tanaka, Asahi, Noya—" Tooru carefully does not look further than the men that Sugawara points to in turn, “—all orphans, taken in by our village the moment they stumbled through.”

He turns his cool stare back to Tooru, who can sense where this conversation is headed. He can see a black head in his peripheral, facing them. He can feel eyes staring at him. The back of this throat burns, and his knee throbs. His heartbeat pulses with it. One. _It’s his fault._ Two. _It’s his fault._ Three. _It’s **your** fault—_

“I don’t know what happened between you and Kageyama. He refuses to tell me any details—I imagine no one in the village does, save maybe Hinata. But I don’t need to know that much.” His gaze is as cold and flinty as ice; that lovely face hardened. A chill runs down Tooru’s spine. “All I need to know is that you cast a boy of fifteen out of your home to fend for himself in a world that is plagued by hatred and violence. You can help these villages of Datekougyou and pay us richly in iron. But I shall never forget the boy who appeared before us one morning like a spirit, dressings still wrapped around his healing wounds. I shall never forget what you had done to him. And I shall never forgive it.”

Tooru is silent for a long while. His grip on the reins is so tight his knuckles stand white, though he does not let his strain show on his face. He does not regret. He will not spend what little feeling he has left regretting what cannot be undone.

“I see.”

Sugawara’s face has returned to something soft, the corners of his mouth turned up. How cunning he is. Tooru, to his own dark amusement, still cannot bring himself to dislike this man.

“You do not wish to defend yourself?”

Tooru’s voice is quiet, and he reaches down to stroke his mare’s neck. “To explain my reasoning would not change your opinion of me, Sugawara. That much is clear.”

“I’m glad you understand.”

“I do want you to consider one thing, however.”

Sugawara tilts his head. “And that would be?”

Tooru turns then, torso twisted in his saddle. He allows himself to look where he hadn’t allowed himself before. He searches for that dark head, his eyes catching another’s. He is met by surprise, then anger, then guilt, then despair, and then nothing. Kageyama does not turn away. He never turns away. And he never has.

“Have you ever wondered,” Tooru says slowly, “if maybe he deserved it?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

_\- then -_

 

“Tooru, my sweetness. Why don’t you go play with Hajime-kun? He’s been ever so patient.”

“But Mama,” Tooru buries his face deeper into her lap, body sagging when her fingers curl gently into his hair. “He’s so _rude._ The last time he was here, he—"

“Darling,” murmurs Hoshiko, a smile painting her voice, “Hajime-kun has no friends here. He’s a long way from home. If you were a long way from home, wouldn’t you want to have a friend?”

The first time he had stepped foot in Seijou was a long time ago, before he cared about impressing anyone, before he had met the son of that clan’s lord in his family’s peach orchard. He hardly remembers that land at all, though his parents tell him that it is the furthest he has traveled. But it is hard to relate to time he doesn’t even remember, so he thinks of someplace else—where the land meets the sea, walking through the nearby harbor town and clutching his mother’s hand. There, the air tastes like salt and smells of fish, and it makes his eyes tired. As nice as that town is, he doesn’t like the idea of wandering it without a hand to hold on to.

Tooru looks up at her, lower lip slightly pouted. “I suppose.”

Hoshiko smiles, all beauty and moonbeams. She strokes his face, and he leans into her touch. “That’s right.”

He finds himself climbing further into her lap, so that he can press his face into her long hair, black and smelling of flowers. He wouldn’t dare do so in front of his father, or Seiichi or Ryouta or Isao, because none of them would approve of it. He’s eight now, and has not nursed in a long time. He is too old to be clutching onto his mother, but it is a comfort, a habit not so easily broken.

“Tetsu-chan’s mama made him stay home today.”

Hands run up and down his back, as if she were soothing a baby with colic. “Why don’t you invite Keiji-kun?”

“He has a cold.”

“Then what about those two boys who are always running about the stables? You said that you liked them.”

He does like them—they are rowdy, and do not care that his own class stands leagues above them. They push him into the dirt just the same as they would any other boy, a fact that makes him irrationally happy. He has been meaning to pay them a visit, and with the addition of the Iwaizumi boy, any game they choose will certainly be more fun. With a sigh, he slips from Hoshiko’s lap. She pats him on the head, smiling as she smooths his hair into place.

“Go now, my prince. I am going to arrange flowers with Hajime-kun’s mother. Oh, she is a dear woman.”

_If she is so lovely, then why did she raise her son to be so ill-mannered?_

His thoughts are sour as he slides open the shoji doors of his mother’s private quarters and steps out into the hallway, closing them behind his back. Servants run past him with hardly a glance; it is a busy day, with several visiting dignitaries and their retinue. This calls for a vast amount of food and prepared rooms, as well as space cleared out in the stables. No one has time to notice the lord’s youngest son, and this is just fine by him. It means he goes unbothered as he walks across the castle to the main hall, and then down the stone steps onto the lane that leads to the front gate. He ducks into the gardens that frame the road, following a hunch. Sure enough, he finds the boy with his hands in the pond, sifting through the muck at the bottom. As Tooru nears, he notices that the small hands are cupped around a shallow pool of water, and that he holds a small, wriggling black polliwog. Tooru’s nose wrinkles.

“Hajime.”

The boy’s head whips around, face lighting up with an enthusiasm completely disproportional to the occasion. His cheeks are still exceedingly round; his limbs still exceptionally skinny. In the past year, he has changed very little. It is a strange sort of comfort. “Tooru!”

Tooru looks off to the side. “My mother said you were looking for me.”

“Yes, I was. Oh! Wait for a moment.” Hajime dips his hands back into the pond, setting his prisoner free, and he hastily dries them on his trousers. Tooru is then presented with a closed fist. “Here,” Hajime orders, and unthinkingly Tooru offers his open palm—a brown stone is dropped into it, the surface puckered and with the texture of rough wood. “I have not lost it,” Hajime declares proudly, chin tilted up, as if he has accomplished some marvelous feat.

Tooru’s eyes widen. “This is—“

“The peach pit, from before. I have kept it safe, as you told me to.”

The flesh of the peach has been sucked clean from its center stone. It could be the seed from any fruit—there is no proof that this came from the same peach that held the spontaneous promise. But there is not a single doubt that Hajime would think to deceive him. Tooru does not believe he would be capable of it, should the idea even cross his primitive mind. He stares, feeling uncharacteristically flustered.

“I cannot decide if you are simply earnest, or simply an idiot.”

Hajime bristles, and Tooru quickly backsteps.

“I told you that we could play together if you kept it safe, is that it? Very well. Then we may play together.”

Immediately, like a chip of ice held under the tongue, Hajime’s ire melts. He smiles, holes in between his teeth, like Tooru’s own. He is too pleased, and Tooru turns away.

“There are two others who may like to join us. Come, let’s fetch them.” He begins skirting the edge of the pond in the direction of the stables, without waiting for Hajime to reply. Hajime catches up after a short moment, slowing down to even their paces.

They keep to the cover of the garden, to avoid the foot traffic of the road. The space is relatively modest, but this is of course to make room for enormous size of the castle keep and the various outbuildings that make up the inner complex. This is not lost on Hajime, who is looking behind them as they walk, staring wondrously at the building as they leave it. Tooru finds himself watching the path in front of Hajime’s feet, lest a stray stone or root lies before him without his notice.

“Your castle is very grand,” Hajime notes.  

“Of course it is!” Tooru replies haughtily. “My father would settle for nothing less! A lord as magnificent as he deserves the best castle there is.” He glances behind them as well. “And it is not even finished. He wishes to expand the castle; there will be a moon-viewing tower, and a tearoom covered in gold. Soon, it shall be even more splendid."

Hajime tilts his head. “Are you going to inherit this land?”

“I have three older brothers,” Tooru mutters. He perks up after a heartbeat. “Though father says that I am his favorite! I think he will pass this fortress on to _me_."

They hop across several large, flat stones that sit in a line across the pond. Their reflections are quivering and gray, and the water ripples as marbled fish writhe beneath it, the feathers of waterfowl collecting at the edges. The both of them have gone quiet as they veer back onto the road, the pepper gravel and rich dirt of the garden replaced by packed-down earth. No one looks at the two boys wearing clothes that are too polished to belong to peasants. 

“Do you have siblings?” Tooru asks, to fill the silence. They pass through the gate, keeping to the side to allow a cart through. 

“I had a younger sister,” Hajime mumbles quietly. His voice is nearly lost among the distant clamor. “She passed before her first birthday.”

He wishes that he had left the silence well alone.

“My condolences.”

Hajime shakes his head. “It’s fine.”

It is very clearly not fine, and Tooru continues on their path in an awkward state of not knowing what to say now. Hajime stares at the ground in front of them, his eyebrows puckered again in that way that Tooru suddenly finds familiar. He wants to say something to make the air around them lighter, but wouldn’t that be inappropriate, to make light of something clearly grim? He doesn't know how he'd feel if one of his brothers were to die. He doesn't think the experience would be very happy, though he doesn't think he would wear the same grieving face that Hajime makes. They are not cruel to him, but they also rarely acknowledge him at all - he is the puppy that trails after them, starving for scraps. He does not care for them the same as he cares for his mother and father, or the way Hajime cared for his younger sister. Tetsurou, then? Tooru briefly lets himself imagine his oldest friend gone stiff and pale, and - oh, yes, that  _does_ hurt quite a lot. He pulls a face, his stomach feeling suddenly sour. Though he does not need to ruminate on the feeling for long, as they soon approach the stables. It is as busy as any other part of the keep, as the workers bring buckets of water and yellow hay for the horses of the visitors. The air is heavy with the smell of manure and horse sweat, a nostalgic smell not altogether unpleasant. He banishes the sour feeling as best he can, cupping a hand around his mouth.

“Takahiro! Issei!” Tooru yells. He does not bother trying to search for each of them in turn, for he knows where one is, the other is bound to be close by. Sure enough, hardly a second passes before two heads pop out from behind the stable doors like two rodents from their holes. Their faces are dirty and there is hay sprouting from their hair. Both of them have smiles like they have done something they should not have.

“Who’ve you got there, Tooru?” Takahiro asks, stepping out across the yard. His feet are bare, just as they always are. Issei follows him, watching Hajime closely.

Tooru thumps Hajime on the back. “This is Hajime. We want to play the demon game. Would you care to join us?”

Issei turns to look at his friend, sleepy-looking eyes bright with excitement. When Tooru had first met him, he had mistaken his calm for apathy, something he very brutally learned was not the case. “What do you say, Taka?”

Takahiro grins. “I’ll play if you do.”

“I would not miss it.”

Tooru claps his hands. “Good. We’re in agreement then?”

Their preferred playground is the castle town, a village that sits at the foot of the keep just beyond the outer gate. Most of the servants and their families live there, so it is usually bustling with children eager to play with the young nobility. But they will need more room; more space for flat-out running, without the need to dance around the roadblocks that permeate a busy street. So Tooru leads them past the town, where on one side of the road lies the peach orchard where he first spoke to Hajime (and Tooru knows that he remembers, by the way his fingers twitch towards the pit that he had stowed away in the pocket of his trousers), and on the other a paddy field. The field is flooded by the river that distantly empties into the sea; the dry edges are marked where long grass begins to grow. This meadow is vast, with the great forest right in front of them, and the roofs of the castle town's houses to their left. It is a gentle hill, with its green grass that stands as tall as their waists. When the wind passes over it, it ripples like water.

Tooru wades through, creating a path that the others follow. He stops when he can hear the river branch that leads towards the village, a faint tinkle that is nearly lost in the rustle he makes as he walks. They gather in a loose half-circle, Hajime looking around them. Tooru notices that his gaze focuses intensely on a nearby locust that leaps among the blades. 

Takahiro raises his hand, his smile absolutely diabolical. “May I be the demon? I never got the chance to last time.”

“Sure,” Tooru shrugs, and Takahiro stamps his feet excitedly.  

Hajime frowns, ripping his eyes away from the insect. “What does that mean?”

“This game is similar to a game of cat and mouse,” Issei explains. “Taka is the demon. He will chase us—if he touches you with his hand, then you will become a demon as well. You must then join hands with him and help him in his pursuit of the rest of us. So the goal is to run and avoid being touched by him.”

“Sounds easy enough.” Hajime rolls his shoulders, then reaches down and stretches to his toes. It seems he is going to be taking this seriously. _Good._

Takahiro nods importantly. “After I tell you to begin, you will have five seconds for a running start. After that, you are all my prey.” He grins, baring his teeth in imitation of some ferocious predator. They line up side-by-side, Takahiro a few paces behind them. Tooru bounces on his toes. They wait, muscles tensing once they hear Takahiro’s intake of breath.

“Ready? Begin!"

Hajime immediately shoots off like an arrow, and Tooru makes a loud noise of dismay. He has never seen such a fast runner—Hajime makes for the cover of the trees as agilely as a jackrabbit, and Tooru quickly realizes that if he does not do something, then he is going to lose.

He starts running, Issei fast on his heels. The ground below him disappears in a blur, and he strives to push himself harder, yet still Hajime’s figure grows further and further away.

“Your friend is the _real_ demon!” Issei calls from his right, easily keeping pace with Tooru. He sounds entirely amused and Takahiro laughs loudly from somewhere behind them.  

A few more seconds and they reach the shade of the trees, Hajime already long gone. Tooru bursts through the foliage first, eyes wildly searching for a place to find cover. This forest is very old, and everything that is not already green is covered in a thick layer of moss. It is a place that grows darker the further in you travel, and he has been warned to keep to the fringes, lest he find himself hopelessly lost.

Issei leaves him then to leap over a narrower limb of the field stream and disappear into the undergrowth. Tooru himself sprints through a clump of ferns before scrambling over a pile of moss-covered boulders—his feet struggle on the slippery surface, and he has to grab fistfuls of the stuff to keep from tumbling back where he came. He can hear a great ruckus behind him—Issei is making no effort to keep his location a secret, as he whoops and hollers as he crashes about like an angry boar. He is so loud that birds in the canopy above screech at him for the disturbance, the sound of their flapping wings drowning out the noise of everything else. And by the looks of it, Issei is leading Takahiro this way. Tooru looks around frantically for a place to hide, a way to disappear, his breathing sharp and labored. The roots of the trees here are large and arched, many providing a natural shelter, if he’s willing to get onto his hands and knees. But he won’t have the time to do so before being seen. He will need to provide some sort of distraction, to divert Takahiro’s attention away—

It’s then that he once more catches sight of Hajime, leaping from one stone to another, his face relaxed. His footing does not waver for a single moment. He is as sure-footed as a goat, and Tooru becomes overtaken by a fit of malicious jealousy. Why does Hajime have to be faster than him? Why doesn’t Hajime struggle as Tooru does? How is that fair? Tooru is _better—_

“ _Hajime, look out!"_

Hajime glances up just as he is mid-leap; his eyes are wide and startled, searching for the danger that isn’t there. The distraction is short, but it is enough to impede his coordination. This time as he lands, he is unable keep his balance. He wobbles, his feet slipping out from underneath him on the slick moss.

And he falls.

Tooru’s jaw drops on a gasp, and he’s only able to watch as Hajime tumbles head-first from the boulder and disappears behind a patch of bushes. There is a dull thump, and a low groan of pain. With a sinking stomach Tooru rushes for him, finding him lying on his back in the leaves and staring at the branches above, the expression on his face dazed.

Tooru leans over him, reaching to gently touch his temple. His heart is pounding and he feels cold all over, because if Hajime is permanently damaged, it will be his fault. “Have you hit your head?”

He is forced to sit back as Hajime pulls himself up into a sitting position. “Yes.” He rubs the back of his skull, wincing. But he does not sound like he is in pain anymore, and his voice does not tremble in the slightest. “It’s alright, though. Kenma tells me I am hard-headed.”  

There is no blood, in the very least. There is no way to see the physical damage through his hair, and Tooru does not think Hajime would be appreciative of fingers searching through it for a tender spot. And while this is a great relief, it does nothing to stop the sickening twist in Tooru’s gut when Hajime moves to stand, and promptly lets out a sharp hiss. They both look to where his hand automatically reaches—towards his rapidly swelling ankle. The skin is reddening, a pale purple already blooming at the edges. A sprain, if he’s lucky. Maybe something worse. But yet his eyes remain utterly dry, and he observes his wound with a clinical detachment.

The sounds of Issei and Takahiro shouting deep in the forest echoes back to them, gleeful shrieks and bellowing laughter. Their game has turned into a game between two, completely ignorant to what befell the remainder of their group.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Tooru asks, because those colors could not be accompanied by anything else but an excruciating throb.

“It does.”

Tooru peers at him. “You aren’t crying.”

“There is no need to cry. That will not make the pain any better.” He lets out a breath, before he looks up at Tooru. “You should continue your game. It is going to take me a while to walk back to the castle.”

 _Walk back—?_ Tooru startles, wide-eyed and disbelieving. Is he serious? Does he honestly intend to drag himself through bramble and roots and rocks and dirt all that way on his own? Perhaps he hit his head harder than they thought.  

_Does he truly think so little of me?_

“Nonsense,” Tooru breathes. “You can’t walk when your ankle is like that. I’ve never seen such a hideous color.”

Hajime’s brow furrows. “Well, I am not going to _crawl._ ”

“No, you are not,” Tooru agrees. He turns around and crouches, hands beckoning behind him. “Climb on my back.”

“What? No.”

“It’s my fault that you fell in the first place. I was playing unfairly,” Tooru admits. “It is the least I can do.”

Still, Hajime hesitates. He looks at Tooru’s hands as if they mean to pinch him.

Tooru huffs impatiently. “I promise that I am stronger than I look. Climb on.”

There is the sound of shifting leaves, another soft hiss of pain. Arms wind around his neck; a body draped over his back. Tooru reaches so that he can get a hold of Hajime’s thighs, and then he stands, albeit with difficulty and an embarrassing amount of staggering.

Hajime lets out a breath, the warmth of it damp against the back of Tooru’s neck. “I am too heavy. Put me down.”

“Say another word and I shall be insulted.”

Hajime stays quiet, which Tooru is grateful for as he struggles to make his way back to the edge of the forest. It takes a long time, for quite a few reasons. One, the additional weight on his back. Two, he has to make his way around obstacles; ones he had simply climbed over before. Hajime is able to bend away branches from his face but he can’t move large stones or part the stream. So they must make detours, and Tooru has to stop frequently to catch his breath and to adjust Hajime’s weight when he begins to slip. By the time they are back in the great meadow overlooking the paddy field, he is panting for breath and his sweaty palms make holding Hajime up even more difficult. But he would rather die than let Hajime hear him complain.

“Thank you,” Hajime mumbles. The grass blades are sticky, something Tooru hadn’t noticed when he had sprinted for the cover of the forest. They catch at his clothes, like they want to suck him into the earth and slow him down further.

“I told you, it was my fault. Do not thank me.”

“No, I mean thank you for allowing me to play with you,” Hajime says, and then, unbelievably, he _laughs_ — _what a nice sound, it’s the first Tooru’s heard it—_ “It was fun while it lasted.”

Tooru is sweating like a horse in the high sun, which is why his ears are burning so badly. He grunts in response, because how is he meant to reply to that? _I’m sorry I almost killed you? Have you always been able to run so fast? When will you be coming back?_

_You should laugh more often._

The moment they arrive back to the keep, Tooru covered head-to-toe in sweat and the yellow dust of the ferns, Hajime is taken from his back and carried off to the infirmary. Tooru himself is herded back to his room, where he is forced to sit in a tub of cold water as he is washed. His arms and legs are so tired that they quiver, and he nearly nods off as a cloth wipes away the pollen from his flushed skin. But he finds the strength to doze at his window afterwards, keeping himself awake so that he can watch for the moment that Hajime appears in the courtyard. When he does, his bare ankle is wrapped in white linen, and he is carried across to the guest quarters by a man Tooru has never seen before. The man is dressed in grand cloth, his posture one of undeniable rank. _The daimyo Iwaizumi,_ Tooru thinks sleepily. Hajime has tucked his face into the man’s shoulder, and he is cradled as easily as if he weighed nothing more than a small sack of rice. Tooru is overcome by jealousy for the second time that day. _Someday,_ he thinks, _I’m going to be strong enough to carry Hajime, too._

He falls asleep at his window, and when he wakes in the morning he finds himself tucked into bed, having no memory of ever being moved.

This is the last time Tooru sees Hajime for the next eight years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so the real thirst begins >:) sorry there wasn't a lot of present-day iwaoi this chapter, its just too fun writing them when they were little :') so spunky~~~
> 
> Honestly this is the first chapter that I’ve written for this story that I personally ENJOY. Not to say that I haven’t had a blast writing this whole thing, but it’s the first one that has gotten me personally invested in this story—like, wow, I love this world I’ve created, I love these characters and their pasts, I love where this is going. It’s a very good feeling, lemme tell you! 
> 
> Also ive noticed that I keep writing kuroo in various states of undress—this has been done subconsciously, as my thirst for him can never be sated 
> 
> WE! ARE! GETTING! CLOSE! TO THE PART IM REALLY EXCITED FOR!!! Next chapter may be the kageyama-oikawa ‘what the hell went down b/w them” chapter, who knows. Still thinkin bout it. BUT WE’RE CLOSEEEE! 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your love and support. it keeps me young.  
> ohhotlamb.tumblr.com


	7. mimas

 

 

“We have to leave the wagons and oxen here. We cannot bring them with us into the mountains,” Sawamura calls over the group. “Pack as much food and supplies as you can into your saddlebags. The rest must stay behind until our return.”

This had been the plan from the beginning, but Tooru still feels a small burst of unease as he straps as much as possible to his mare’s sides. He should not be worrying, as it will only take an additional day or two before they reach their destination—the villages they seek are nearby, isolated between mountain peaks. During the summer the valley in which the communities sit is fertile and green, but now it must be under several feet of snow. The people there can’t risk moving to safety, vulnerable to the attack of brigands and the frigid cold. Only single messengers that leave under the cover of nightfall have successfully been able to make it to the stronghold to beg for help. And here help has come.

As promised, Aone has come to meet them, bringing two of his closest companions. Tooru is very familiar with him; with his silences, and his glower. His personality is about as fierce as a newly hatched duckling, though the sword at his side and shield that spans his entire back are not merely for show. While Tooru had once been known for his aggressive swordplay, Aone was known for the opposite; never giving away any ground, never budging enough for someone to get in a nick. He is one of protectors of this place, of this mountainous land that echoes with the cries of its suffering people.

Datekougyou.

Fifty years ago it had been an offensive power keen on conquest. They had been in control of the very ground they stand on now, and a staggering amount of Seijou land marked with their footprints behind them. Over time, the hungry daimyo here had calmed into leaders more intent on _keeping_ their borders than expanding it. The military had decreased, dwindling over time, their power coming from a handful of extraordinarily skilled samurai trained specifically in defense. The palace was safely hidden in the mountains of the east and cradled by the sea to the north, and Seijou had never shown an inkling of thirst for the land that had once been theirs.

But that was before Iwaizumi Hajime.

Tooru had only heard of what happened through word-of-mouth, from uneasy whispers between members of the council. He never saw the war with his own eyes, but his skin prickles when he thinks about what a sight it must have been.  In a matter of hours, the land that had been kept all those decades was stripped; swept away from under Datekougyou’s feet in a brutal display of power and mastery of command. It is clear the memory is still fresh in Aone’s eyes—the way he looks at Iwaizumi with a darkly simmering respect, and fear. What those eyes have seen Tooru can’t fathom, but the tension in the air here is unbearable.

He glances over as he finishes securing the straps of his saddlebags. Aone’s two companions are not quite as shy as their leader; their hostility is easily read in the curl of their lips, in their narrowed eyes.  One of them, the one that acts as Aone’s mouthpiece, is filling Iwaizumi in with the most recent intel regarding the situation, but doing little to hide how he feels about speaking to the man who humiliated his clan. Iwaizumi is taking the belligerence calmly. This is in stark contrast to Bokuto at his side, who is bristling from the aggression that charges the air. Tooru’s purpose here is suddenly made all too apparent, and he steps between them, setting in place a blinding, princely smile.

“Aone! Futakuchi! And, erm, their comrade! How good it is to see you again!”

Futakuchi stops speaking mid-sentence, the tense lines in his face relaxing just slightly. The other man, looking like a very disgruntled rooster, blinks at Tooru with equally birdlike eyes.

“My deepest condolences, Oikawa-sama,” Futakuchi replies earnestly. He brushes away his hair from obscuring his right eye, but it slides back almost immediately. “If only I had known about your marriage sooner, I would have sent you a gift to make the tragedy a little easier to bear.”

There is a heartbeat of awkward silence, each of them shifting their weight in discomfort. Bokuto takes longer than the rest to comprehend the snub, and a moment later he very audibly growls under his breath. Tooru lets out a cheerful, false laugh in hopes of covering it up. “Oh, there’s no need for that, my friend. I am quite happy.” He lies through his teeth, but he’s gotten so good at denying his misery that it comes out smooth and believable. That’s what he thinks, but then Futakuchi is winking at him, very obviously and for everyone to see.

“ _Happy,_ indeed. Well, I am personally thrilled to pieces that your new husband is all too eager to dispose of the vermin for us. It saves us quite a lot of trouble.”

Tooru sucks in a shallow breath, mind racing. How can he respond to that tactfully? How can he smooth over what is blatantly meant to provoke? Before he can say anything, Bokuto rises to the bait, the line of his back tense. “Being unable to defend your own homeland is _nothing_ to boast about.” His voice is uncharacteristically subdued, rage buried poorly beneath a thin layer of composure. For the first time, Tooru finds himself missing the insufferable joviality.

Iwaizumi finally speaks, and it is to bark at his captain sharply, his voice dripping with warning. “Koutarou, enough.”

But Futakuchi looks delighted to have been challenged, his eyes gleaming dangerously. “I think I shall brag when I have means to. The mighty land of Datekougyou will rid itself of a menace without having to lift a finger. Isn’t it marvelous?” There’s another choked sound at that, and Tooru’s eyes widen. The situation is rapidly spiraling out of control, and if the tension is not diffused, there may soon be blood melting the snow.

“Mighty? _Mighty?”_ Bokuto snarls. “You cannot fend them off yourself, and you dare to insult my lord? He is doing you a _kindness!_ ”

Futakuchi smiles coldly. “You think you are doing us a favor, when in fact it is exactly the opposite. You want our iron so badly you would die for it? Very well, then we are more than happy to provide you with the opportunity. I rather like not having to dirty my hands. Your _lord_ will do the work for me.”

Bokuto’s lips pull away from his teeth, red rising up from his neck. Iwaizumi sets a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Go get your horse ready. Now.”

“But—"

“ _Now_.”

It is with visible effort that Bokuto tears himself away, his hands curled into fists. Tooru sees his fingers clench and unclench, aching to use them. He walks away towards where Tetsurou is holding onto the lead of his horse for him. Tooru does not look too closely. He is still bitter.

Futakuchi snorts.

“At least you can control your dogs well enough.”

“Kenji.”

It is just the one word, but it is deep, and unmistakably Aone. It is not even a full command, but Futakuchi doesn’t open his mouth again. He grows quiet. After sending another sneer to Iwaizumi, a piteous frown to Tooru, he then walks away as well.

Aone does not apologize for his captain’s behavior.

“He is scared,” he says instead, simply.

Iwaizumi turns to look out at the mountain pass. He does not ask for anything more than that.

“Let’s move out.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Whose delightful idea was it to travel in the dead of winter, again?”

“We had no choice. This is a matter that could not be delayed a moment further, and you know it.”

Tooru must ride beside Iwaizumi, because he cannot have the men of Datekougyou seeing him act coldly to his own husband—that would not help foster friendship between the two factions. So they stay close together, only diverging briefly when the path thins and the horses must walk one behind the other. Aone leads them, followed closely by Futakuchi and the other man who Tooru cannot be bothered to remember the name of. The rest ride behind them, with the members of Karasuno bringing up the rear.

The ground of the slopes is covered in a thick layer of snow, the path they follow being carved into the side of the mountain and several horse-lengths wide. The snow here has not been trampled down, so while their progress is slow it provides the horses some traction. But they still slip, every so often—there will be a gasp from behind, a heavy grunt as the beast catches its balance. It is nerve-wracking, but Tooru cannot let it show that he is frightened. Right now, they are far enough from the edge of the cliffside that a slip does not mean immediate death. He dreads the moment in which the road thins and they will be forced to ride single-file.

“You asked me about my father,” Iwaizumi says, out of nowhere.

“I had.”

“I think it would only be fair if I asked you a question of my own.”

Ordinarily, he would argue— _I don’t owe you a damn thing._ But he can’t deny that he is grateful for any sort of distraction, so that he does not look down at how far he would fall should his mare choose to throw him over the edge. He allows himself to pause, though, so that he does not come across as too eager. “You may, though it will be my choice whether to answer or not.”

“Many months ago, when my father was explaining to me the benefits of a marriage between our factions, he mentioned something that I have been curious about ever since.”

Tooru remembers his own such conversation with Noboru, but he imagines the two of them had gone vastly different. Knowing Iwaizumi, his had ended with familial embraces and sworn oaths to uphold duty, or something else equally noble and sickening.

“Seijou has always been wary of Datekougyou, for as long as our history can remember.That wariness grew into resentment once they took control of our northern territory. We share our western border with Shiratorizawa, as you do, but we have never been threatened by them. Nor do we carry the same wariness towards them as we do for Datekougyou. My father said that is not the case in Aoba Johsai.”

“That is correct.”

“I would like to hear in your own words the history between your people.” He must catch something foul in Tooru’s expression, because he rolls his eyes and adds impatiently, “I know you hold personal grudges, and I am not asking you about those.”

Tooru furrows his brows and takes a moment to mull over the request. As long as he is careful, there is no information he may slip that Iwaizumi could lord over his head and use against him later. A basic history lesson, then. The same he was given by his tutor as a child, and the same that any child that grew up in Aoba Johsai was taught.

“Ushijima Katsuo has been a thorn in our rear end for as long as I can remember,” he begins, being transported back to the stuffy room near his childhood chambers, where he was tortured with endless numbers and the brushstrokes of black ink on parchment. “And for as long as anyone living in Aoba Johsai can remember. The hills that once made up the border between our clans are rich in precious metals—gold, and silver. Ushijima had mined all that he could on their side, and so he had set his sights on ours.

“Father did what he could, to keep Ushijima’s thirst sated. He did not want it to come to war. So he rolled over and exposed his belly like a submissive pup. He traded our gold in return for dirt, but it was not enough for them.  Father often joked that Ushijima wanted to someday rule the world.”

_Though we all knew that he never truly believed it to be a joke._

Tooru lets out a breath, watching it fog in front of his mouth. He can feel Iwaizumi’s eyes on his face, watching him intently as he speaks. It is the most he has said uninterrupted to his husband since they married, he thinks.

“Five years ago they had stolen a…significant portion of land. Aoba Johsai had been tricked—lured in. There was a battle. The casualties were severe, and we…lost.” Tooru swallows, his throat dry. He forces his mind not to wander. He does not allow himself to think the usual rush of images—the rusty colors, the blur of motion. The sound of his own heart beating ferociously in his ears. “Ushijima had sent his son to do his bidding for him. His heir is illegitimate, as he was born the son of a whore. He is called Wakatoshi, and had been raised with the full intention of replacing his father. He is a bastard child, through-and-through.”

Iwaizumi speaks up then to ask, “Have you met him?”

Curtly, “Yes.”

“What is he like?”

Tooru ignores the question. He calls forth the words he has heard many times murmured from gossiping lips throughout the years. “Rumor has it that there had once been two sons of Shiratorizawa, born in the same year to different mothers. One was born of Ushijima’s wife, the other a concubine. The legitimate son was sickly from birth, and only grew weaker as he aged—it is whispered that Wakatoshi stole the life from him. He died a long time ago.”

Iwaizumi peers at him closely. “Have you spoken to him? To the bastard son of Ushijima?”

Through gritted teeth, “Yes.”

“Wh—"

“I think this is where you recall that you will not ask me about my personal grudges.”

Iwaizumi is silent for a long moment. He turns to look ahead of them, the expression on his face contemplative. The idea of being thrown from Tooru’s horse suddenly does not sound as unappealing as it once did.

“And so you merge with Seijou, so that Shiratorizawa must think twice before crossing into your lands once more.”

Tooru nods with a loud exhale, relieved that he is not prodded any further. “That is the idea, yes. Though the land is already lost. The opportune time for a preemptive merge has long since passed.” He frowns. “I imagine Father did not want to risk losing any more territory.”  

The reasoning behind the marriage is sound, but it is not strong enough to make the taste of it any sweeter. Had it _truly_ been a necessity? What more could Shiratorizawa possibly want from them, now that they lay claim over the most valuable resources Aoba Johsai had to offer? Noboru had said that it was in order to prevent a siege of their stronghold, and to keep Tooru safe from being further crippled. It makes sense, but it is _not enough._

 _Face the truth, Tooru. He just wanted to be rid of you._  

A strong gust of wind blows through them then, throwing fresh snow into their faces. Tooru grits his teeth against the sting on his cheeks. He pulls up his cloak to better protect his face, so that only his eyes are visible. He has to speak up in order to be heard through the fabric. “And what about yourself? I was told that you needed a prince and his army so that Datekougyou would not dare to spit at your feet.” He laughs. “And now it has been proven to be a lost cause. They would love nothing more than to present your head on a golden platter. The second you aren’t of use to them, you will be hunted down. Anything else I can do for you?”

Something dark flashes behind Iwaizumi’s eyes, and he looks away. He lowers his voice so the men ahead cannot eavesdrop. “The addition of the military of Aoba Johsai is an excellent deterrent. Even if Datekougyou wanted to come for us again at this point, they would stand no chance whatsoever.” He hesitates for a heartbeat, licking his lips. “Besides that, if there are ulterior motives for deciding this marriage, then they have not been shared with me.”

_You’re lying._

Tooru does not know what prompts the thought, but something tells him that it is true—it’s not tangible evidence, but with that one sentence, Iwaizumi has proven to be hiding something. There is a small voice in the back of Tooru’s mind that whispers with certainty: _Iwaizumi Hajime cannot lie._ He does not know how he can be so sure of this, but he is. From the moment they stood across from each other and shared the cup of wine, Iwaizumi has been nothing but sincere. To a level that was bordering on infuriating, even. Yes, he is a severe man. But he spoke his mind whenever he desired to, and shared nothing but his utter truth. Whether it was his anger, his disgust, his grief—each emotion was worn comfortably. Now that this earnestness wavers, it is easy to detect the cracks. He is not like Tooru—he is not used to the taste of dishonesty.

How unlucky he is to be married to a man with a nose so finely tuned to sniffing out deceit on others.

_I will find your truth._

But it is something to unearth another time. The path ahead of them is thinning, and Aone is guiding them to walk one by one, nose to tail. The cliff face is even steeper now. Tooru’s stomach twists and he feels his face pale.

“Are you frightened?”

The tone is…different. Soft, almost. It continues to be quiet, so that no one else can hear. Tooru’s ears burn. Of all the people to have noticed—

_Why him?_

“Of course I’m not.”

He’d spent so much of his life in the highest peak of his castle, staring up at the moon. Longing to be up among the stars and look down at his home as if he were a god. What makes this so different?

(Never has Tooru met someone as terrified of falling as himself.)  

“Go ahead of me,” Iwaizumi says. His horse slows, allowing Tooru’s to pass. Tooru now rides directly behind Futakuchi.

“What a gentleman,” he sneers. But he can’t deny that there is a certain amount of comfort to be had, knowing that should he fall, there is someone who just may try to catch him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He very vaguely remembers complaining that Seijou was too cold. On the night of his wedding, scurrying to the castle that would be his new home in nothing but a thin silk kimono. His skin had been chilled, and he had longed for the comfortable air of the southern keep of Aoba Johsai. Tooru would like to go back and tell himself that, _no,_ _you don’t know what cold is._ Cold is sitting in a mountainside cave in the territory of Datekougyou, unable to seek warmth from his dearest friend, because he is still angry with him. He must instead make do by sitting as close to the fire as possible without singeing his clothes, watching the porridge that sits among the flames simmer. Tooru is looking forward to the comfort of a warm house or inn—the cold is causing his knee to stiffen up even more than normal, and he had not been able to mount his horse on his own this morning. To his humiliation, Iwaizumi had had to shove him on, as Tooru would rather die at this point than ask Tetsurou.

Iwaizumi has put himself to work constructing their resting place for the night. He does this deeper into the cave, where the stone walls will protect them from the wind. He lays the animal skins typically used for the tent on the ground for additional insulation, which leaves more bedding to be laid on top of them as they sleep. Hopefully, this means that Tooru does not have to worm towards the obscenely warm body next to him in the middle of the night. He does not think his pride could survive another morning of waking up to a stony-faced Iwaizumi, his limbs wrapped where they shouldn’t and his face pressed into the hard muscle of someone else’s chest.

The food looks to have been cooked long enough and the others have begun eating, so Tooru goes to fetch two bowls from his saddlebag, along with two pairs of chopsticks. He returns and ladles himself a healthy serving, returning to sit on the cold stone away from the others. He sets the other empty bowl next to him—for Iwaizumi, once he finishes his chore for the evening. Tooru does not relish the idea of eating supper with his husband, but he must if he is to maintain the illusion of their loving marriage. Though perhaps this is unnecessary—the men from Datekougyou are far removed from the rest of them, eating silently. The air around them is heavy, and solemn.

Even though he takes slow, deliberate mouthfuls, Tooru still finishes his first bowl before there is any sign of Iwaizumi completing his duties. He clucks his tongue irritably—here he is, going out of his way to eat his food slowly so that they might sit together and further the delusion of their happiness. How long does it take to lay down a few furs? Tooru turns to see what is keeping him. He freezes.

Iwaizumi is still where he was the last time Tooru looked, but this time he is not alone. He stands beside the makeshift bed with his hands on his hips, stoically facing down none other than Kageyama. The latter is speaking enthusiastically, gesturing with his hands, but it is too quiet to be overheard. What could they possibly be talking about? What could Kageyama—

Before he knows it, Tooru is standing. The sudden, lurching movement does not go unnoticed—from across the cavern, Kageyama pauses, and turns his head. His eyes widen, and Iwaizumi looks to see what has startled him.

What is Kageyama telling Iwaizumi with such fervor? The only thing the two have in common is Tooru himself—Kageyama as his past pupil, Iwaizumi as his spouse. _What are you telling him about me, Tobio?_

It is with a limping gait that Tooru approaches them, teeth gritted against the throbbing discomfort that has his knee nearly buckle with each step.  Immediately, Kageyama bows to Iwaizumi—he mutters something that again goes unheard, and then he spins on his heel to walk briskly back to where the very small, bright-haired man is waiting for him at the fire. His departure is swift, and Iwaizumi watches him leave with a strange twist to his mouth.

“Why were you talking to Tobio?” Tooru demands as soon as he is close enough, hushed so that he does not draw attention to himself. In a small, enclosed space like this, even the smallest sounds magnify and echo, so he must be careful. The crackle of the fire and din of other conversation provide some cover, but it is best to be safe rather than sorry.

Iwaizumi blinks at him. “He approached me.”

Impatiently, “Why? What did he say to you?”

“He asked me who taught me swordsmanship.” Iwaizumi looks somewhat mystified. “It seems he’s heard of me.”

Tooru doesn’t know what he had been expecting. For Kageyama to out him in some way?  To divulge the secrets of their entangled pasts? He has just as much reason not to do so as Tooru, if not more. After all, he was the one who shamed himself. He was the one who was banished. If what Sugawara had said the other day was true—then no one in Karasuno knows the truth. Why would he choose to share it with Iwaizumi of all people? The very notion is nonsensical, and Tooru feels himself sag. A false alarm, then. He let his feathers get ruffled over nothing, and he feels rather foolish.

Cowed, he turns his head, feeling the back of his neck warm. He is glad Iwaizumi does not understand, because if he did he would be even more embarrassed.  “Of course he has. I doubt there’s a swordsman alive who has not heard of you.” And, realizing that sounded almost like a compliment, he hurriedly adds, “Whether you can actually live up the reputation, though, has yet to be determined.”

Iwaizumi opens his mouth, and Tooru can see a challenge there. But then his eyes flick down to look at Tooru’s right knee, at all of his weight balanced on the opposite leg, and his mouth closes.  

“I suppose you’ll just have to decide for yourself someday.”

He turns to walk towards the fire then, helping himself to the clean bowl and serving himself some porridge. He sits down in the same spot Tooru had just been occupying minutes prior. Rather annoyed, Tooru follows him, and he sits down with a gusty breath. They sit close enough together that their thighs touch, and Tooru beats his expression into something more pleasant. He never thought he’d be in such a situation—to make-believe the love he has for the man that is already his husband. It’s very nearly funny, if he were in the mood to see humor.

But he can’t deny that it is nice to feel the warmth of another body (even after he told himself he would no longer try to seek it out). The fire glows upon his nose and cheeks, and he watches the flames lick towards the ceiling. Iwaizumi sets his bowl down in front of him, untouched, and instead reaches for the waterskin attached to his side. He takes a long drink, and then wipes the wetness from his mouth. He is looking at Tooru from the corner of his eyes, thoughtful.

“You are not being forced to sit with me.”

Tooru’s stomach still rumbles, and as there is plenty of food left he heaves himself up with difficulty to reach for the ladle. He pours more into his bowl, and then falls back onto his rear end with a grunt.  His tail bone throbs against the hard stone. “Is it so wrong to want to have a nice talk with my one and only?” _And it is necessary if the men of Datekougyou are ever to trust you._

Perhaps he is falsely saccharine too often, because Iwaizumi does not grow cross after hearing it. In fact, he does not comment on it at all. A strange, impish gleam appears in his eyes. “I have not seen you speak to Kuroo in quite a while,” he says. He knows he has struck a sore spot, because he grins. “Something happen there?”

“Every time,” Tooru breathes, closing his eyes. “Every time I try to be kind, you ruin it.”

Iwaizumi snorts from his nose. He picks his bowl back up, but the chopsticks remain clean. “’Kind’, eh? Is that what this is?”

Tooru frowns at him. “Why are you not eating?”

Immediately, all mischievousness is gone from his demeanor. He glowers at his full bowl, and only then does he stab his chopsticks into the thick porridge. He still does not bring them to his lips. “I am.”

“No, you are picking like a bird. Your food has been untouched.”

Now that Tooru thinks about it, he has never seen more than a grain of rice enter that mouth at one time. The night of Karasuno’s visit at the keep of Seijou, it had been playing with his food, pushing it around the platter to give the illusion of consumption. On the journey here, he had not snacked on dried meat and fruit like the rest of them on horseback. And now—here he is after a grueling day of riding, when he should be absolutely starving. Yet nothing has touched his lips. Even as Tooru points it out, he makes no move to prove the accusation wrong.

_When does he eat? How does he not fall flat each time he takes a step?_

Iwaizumi is glowering, his shoulders rising up to his ears defensively. “Keep your nose out of my business.”

“It just so happens that it _is_ my business.”

He speaks through his teeth. “How so?”

“I don’t care what it is you’re trying to accomplish here,” Tooru hisses, truly struggling to keep his voice down, “but if it comes down to a fight, and it most certainly will—I do not want the ‘ _legendary swordsman Iwaizumi’,”_ here, he lays the sarcasm on thickly, just to watch with satisfaction as those dark eyes narrow, “to be as frail as the father he so dearly loves.”

“Keep my father out of your damn mouth, Oikawa.”

“Would he want this from you?” Tooru spits. “To starve yourself just when you are going to be most needed? In case it has escaped your memory,” he grips onto his knee, leaning in close; he knows his eyes have gone wide, the smile on his lips slightly demented, “I am not going to be much use to us in a fight. Your body needs to be in its best condition. If not for your sake, then for the rest of us.”

Like a spark ground under a calloused heel, Iwaizumi’s temper dies down. He leans away—without either of their notice, their faces had been inches apart. His expression is unreadable. Tooru swallows, tilting his chin up. “You will be free to let yourself waste away the moment we have accomplished what we came here for. But in the meantime, I will kindly ask that you make yourself useful.”

With that, Tooru takes Iwaizumi’s bowl, and dumps the contents of his own on top of what is already there. It threatens to spill over the edges, and he shoves it back into Iwaizumi’s hands.

“Now eat.”

“I will,” Iwaizumi says, a strange look blooming across his face. “I will eat, on one condition.”

“You have _got_ to be joking,” Tooru snarls. “I am not about to chew your food for you—"

“I will eat, on the condition that you tell me about one of your grudges.”

His blood runs cold. “No.”

“Just one.”

“To tell you one, I would have to tell you about the other. My hatred is delicately intertwined.”

“Why,” Iwaizumi leans forward once more, and lowers his voice even further, “do you despise Kageyama?”

Tooru has the frantic and senseless urge to slap a hand over Iwaizumi’s mouth. He gets as far as reaching his chin, when he realizes himself and becomes still. Instead of wrapping his fingers around the throat and squeezing, he drops his hand to Iwaizumi’s shoulder—his fingers curl there, uselessly, in the fabric of his winter cloak. He stares at his own hand.  

A flustered whisper, “I hope you enjoy starvation.”

“Oikawa.” Maddeningly patient, in the way he never truly is, he takes Tooru’s hand away to place it back in his own lap. The skin burns where he has touched, and the sensation very briefly disrupts Tooru’s flurry of thought. _Don't touch me._ The words do not make it to his tongue. “I am going to find out eventually. And I would prefer hearing it from your own mouth, vile as it may be.”

Tooru closes his eyes. “It is a long story.”

“We have time.”

“And it is one that brings me great pain.”

A long silence. It is clear that Iwaizumi does not know what to say—he wars with the decent part of himself that does not want to cause hurt, and the wretchedly curious side that reminds him that _it is only Oikawa, what do you care if this hurts him?_

“But I shall tell you,” Tooru murmurs, as if from within a dream. As if from within a nightmare. “I shall tell you, so that you might understand, if only a little. How I lost the only brother I ever loved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been about 2 months since my last update...yikes? my life has been really hectic the past few months and writing has been on the very bottom of my priority list, so sorry that this took so long! that being said, i soooo appreciate the love and support i keep getting from you guys - have i told you lately that i love you? i KNOW i keep teasing w the kageyama-oiks flashback chapter and i honest to god thought it was gonna happen this chapter but it DIDNT okay they werent ready but i swear on my life that ITS THE NEXT ONE. i already have a good deal of it outlined it just needs to be fleshed out. which could take a while, as i'm working a full time job rn and im so exhausted when i come home but THIS IS THE SHIT IVE BEEN WAITING FOR!!! SINCE LIKE THE SECOND CHAPTER! so hopefully soon. again, thank you<3
> 
> also since im a huge nerd and also apparently some sort of narcissist (as i'm sure you noticed) I made a map of the world where this fic takes place, mostly bc I was confusing myself with directions, and also bc designing stuff like this is SO FUN. When I was growing up zoo tycoon was my life. This is basically zoo tycoon, except a lot less cool. And no animals. 
> 
> ohhotlamb.tumblr.com


	8. fenrir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tooru thinks of his treasured little brother, and no one else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS THE OIKS/KAGS CHAPTER GET READY FOR BLOOD AND TEARS (LITERALLY)  
> oh that note would like everyone to note the change to the tags, as I have added a few that may not be for the faint of heart. I aint fuckin around yall. You knew what you signed up for, now here it is!!!

 

 

-  _then -_

 

 

“Do you remember your promise to me, Tobio?”

He looks up, cheeks flushed with excitement. His armor is in place, a collection of iron and leather plates that protect his thighs, chest, shoulders—everywhere vulnerable, and everywhere that would not hinder movement by covering. It’s nearing on excessive, but Tooru will not take any chances. All it takes is a moment of arrogance to lose what cannot be taken back.

Tobio nods. “What you say goes.”

“If I tell you to take shelter, what do you say?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If I tell you to run, what do you say?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“If I decide to keep you next to me, or put you with Tetsu-chan, or Yahaba—what do you say?”

A furrow appears between his brows. “I don’t need to be coddled.”

“Tobio,” Tooru says sharply. “ _What do you say?”_

An angry sigh, and he looks down and away. “Yes, my lord.”

Tooru momentarily feels guilty for treating Tobio like an infant. After all, they are not very far apart in age—Tooru is only two years his senior. But there _is_ a drastic difference in experience. Tobio might be very good with a katana, but he has next to no practice when it comes to someone rushing at him with the sincere intent to kill. Tooru can simulate deadly situations during training as much as he’d like, but there are some things that can only be learned by living them.

“Do not look so downtrodden. It is unlikely it will come to that.” He peers over from where they are keeping watch over the village in question—from under the cover of the nearby treeline, crouching behind bushes like voyeurs. “I have Kei-chan scouting the area as we speak.  They appear to be a group of common bandits, and nothing more. If it were Shiratorizawa, you would not be taking a single step further. But I think you will probably be able to handle this for your first time.”

“I _will_ be able to handle this,” Tobio corrects, promptly.

His self-confidence is admirable and annoying all at once. Tooru would like to beat him down a few pegs before they get started, just to keep his feet firmly on the ground, but then a voice speaks up from behind them.

“Oikawa-sama.”

Tooru turns.

“Sawamura-san.”

“We’re ready whenever you are.”  His warriors idle about behind him, roughly fifteen men and women that made the trek here specifically upon Tooru’s request. The ever-present Sugawara is standing front and center, and Sawamura has also brought the strong bald one and the little one with the fiercest, most bloodthirsty yellow eyes Tooru has ever seen. It is a capable group. He was right to call for them—Noboru is interested in using Karasuno himself at a later date, and wishes to use this mission as a trial of sorts. Tooru is happy to be the man responsible for judging their abilities.

This village lies not far from the border between Aoba Johsai and Shiratorizawa. It is an important resource for those sent to excavate the nearby hills for silver and gold—it is a place to secure a good meal and night’s sleep before heading to work in the mines. However, about a month ago, the castle received word that a certain nuisance had made that all but impossible. Bandits had taken over the town, chasing away anyone who tried to enter, and threatening those who attempted to leave. It’s bold to a degree that is damn near insulting. _They like to target the towns on the border, as they believe we won’t take the trouble to come this far._

_They will soon learn how wrong they are._

“Excellent. I want everyone to gather round so that I do not have to shout and let the whole town know we are here.”

Sawamura nods, and purses his lips to produce a soft whistle that is akin to a bird’s song. It catches the notice of his people immediately, and they are swift to make their way over. Tooru signals his own as well, and begins to speak once everyone is gathered and kneeling at attention. Sawamura stands beside him, arms crossed over his chest, and the group is so quiet that he does not have to go above a normal volume to be heard.

“I have brought thirty-three of my own men, and with the addition of your own,” a quick gesture to Sawamura, “we well out-number the bandits.” These numbers do not include Tetsurou, who had been forced to stay behind, much to his displeasure. “My scouting efforts tell me that we are looking at a group of around thirty. They are savage and brutal—looting from the townspeople, raping the women, demanding free food and lodgings. No killings so far, but I suspect they are not above it.” He looks out at them steadily. “’Stomp the grass to startle the snake, and lure the tiger from its mountain lair.’ Provoke the enemy with something flashy, in order to pull them away from the position that grants them the advantage. This will be our strategy.”

They are stratagems tried and true, but nothing he has ever attempted himself. It will be a test of his own capabilities, if they manage to pull it off. Which they will, if he has anything to say about it.

“How will we startle the snake? Simple—“ he smiles, rather ominously, “We start a fire, quite literally. Not close enough for the flames to spread, but close enough that it would make them nervous to leave it be. The plan is to draw these cowardly ‘tigers’ away so that they cannot use the cover of buildings or the townsfolk as protection. We want them out in the open to be easily picked off.  I am not interested in pleading for peace or mercy. Kill them all, and spare no one. I would like to make an example of them.”

Tooru looks for movement in his audience—uneasy shifting of eyes, squirming, biting the inside of cheeks. All signs of hesitation, or reluctance. There cannot be a weak link among them, because one soft soul could ruin his ideal of complete victory and absolute retribution. To his pleasure, he sees that no one moves a muscle, and no one shows any indication that they will not kill, given the opportunity. He points, then, out past the trees they gather behind.

“There is a hill that slopes towards the forest at the western edge. Only go there if you can guarantee you keep the high ground. The rice paddies begin from the eastern side for roughly one hundred meters.” His finger slides as he speaks, the tip of his crescent nail outlining the bank of the muddy water. “I want for one small group to be the source of our distraction. The building to be burnt has already been chosen—all I need is for someone to start it, and to make a commotion. Anything to grab their attention and bring them out. Once their focus has been diverted, we will attack from all sides. There are enough of us that we should be able to encircle them completely.”

A woman of Karasuno with beautiful black hair speaks up, her voice like a mellow bell. “How will we be able to tell apart the thugs from the civilians? It is not safe to assume when lives are on the line.”

Tooru nods at her. “Excellent question. My scout has preceded us several days. He has relayed a message that has since passed on through the entire village—the townsfolk are to be wearing red ribbons tied around their left wrist. If you are unsure, then look there first.” He scans each face that looks back at him, and settles his hands on his hips. “Please be aware that I do not want the townsfolk to be needlessly involved. Refuse those who offer to help and tell them to stay in their homes until the fighting is over.”

With that, he claps his hands together and smiles brightly. “Well, that’s all I have in terms of our strategy! I will be breaking you all up into smaller groups momentarily, but first, a few words of encouragement and infinite wisdom!” He spreads his arms to them in a grand sweeping gesture. “I believe in all of you, and your abilities. Be clever, be quick, be strong. Help each other when you need it. Do not take any needless risks.” At this, he makes sure to look pointedly at a few of his more headstrong samurai—Kyouken, and then more subtly, at Tobio. “I know for a fact that you are all more than capable. Please make me proud.” He turns to Sawamura. “Now, then, Sawamura-san—if you would be so kind as to choose those who will be a part of our grand entrance.”

Sawamura clears his throat, an odd expression on his face, and then points to the black-haired woman. “Shimizu, take Noya and Tanaka with you. You are the best fire-starter among us, and they are the loudest and will create the best diversion. Please keep them from hurting themselves.”

Her face becomes unbelievably pinched as soon as he starts to speak, but she visibly swallows whatever protest she may have, and nods instead. “I understand.”

Tooru taps his finger against his chin and surveys his own men, pretending like he hadn’t already decided each and every role since before they even left the castle. But it is then that he catches a strange sound—the huffing of breath, and a muted curse. He turns his head to see a slight man stumbling up the hill, tripping more than once in his haste. He is pushing aside the tall grass with a wild fervor, and Tooru furrows his brows. It is this man’s training to be stealthy—just what could have him so frazzled?

“Oikawa-sama!” the man wheezes once he hits the treeline, Tooru’s other men hastily moving out of his way.

“Watari? Where’s Kei-chan?”

“He sent me to find you.” Watari is gasping for air, coughing as he bends over at the waist. He must have sprinted as fast as he could from gods know where. His eyes are wide and stricken with panic. “They are gathering up the townspeople. Swords pointed at their throats! I-I don’t know how they found out, but they know we are here, they are yelling into the air, demanding that we come to them—“

Tooru’s stomach sinks, and his blood boils as in that moment, all his carefully crafted plans fall to pieces. How? They made no sign of their approach whatsoever. Their horses had been left at a town leagues away. They arrived that morning and had not lit a fire. That means no smoke, and the lush greenery means that they should have been undetectable from the distance of the village. Where is the mistake? Where had they gone awry? They are questions he vows to get to the bottom of, and soon, but for now he must focus on the matter at hand.

Immediately, a switch is flipped and the air goes still. Tooru’s face hardens, mind racing. “Are all the townspeople gathered?”

Watari shakes his head. “No, they are going from house to house and dragging them out.”

“Where’s Keiji?”

“He’s in the village, going to homes that have not yet been reached and telling the villagers to run. He has ordered them to meet at the rice fields.”

Tooru’s men will be more easily able to protect the villagers if they are gathered out in the open in a single, distinguishable area. Keiji is a master of quick thinking, and Tooru quietly sends him a word of thanks.

“Sawamura, take your people and follow Keiji’s lead. Find all those who have yet to be rounded up and take them to safety. Send half to protect those who wait in the fields. Do not leave them until I send word.” He raises his voice, not seeing the point in keeping it low any longer. “The rest of you, follow me. For the time being we must meet their demands if we are to prevent any innocent bloodshed.”

 

* * *

 

 

The clamor of aggressive voices is what draws them towards the town center. Tooru’s group is now significantly reduced from those that had been listening to him just minutes prior—Sawamura had promptly broken up his people and directed them to scatter in opposite directions the moment they hit the village proper. Watari had left to presumably wherever he last saw Keiji, and a handful of others had been ordered to approach from a different vantage point. It had been a mad sprint from the forest to the village, and while none of them lack stamina, Tooru’s throat burns with how hard he is breathing, and the back of his neck prickles with sweat. Tobio, who wears a considerable amount of armor that he is not accustomed to, wears a face tight with discomfort, and he is panting beside his mentor as they come across the gathering crowd.

A lone oak standing in the middle is the only marker that sets apart the central plaza from any other courtyard. It is little more than a large square of packed-down dirt, with several (now closed) businesses spanning the sides, an inn and a seller of produce, a smithy and seamstress. Here is where the villagers are manhandled into rows, their hands tied behind their backs with crude rope. The thugs are being directed by a single man underneath the tree, barking orders that are interspersed by screeches of, “Come out, come out, you spineless little rats! Or I’ll stick holes in every last one of them!” He stands directly behind a line of six ruffians that carry varying weapons, all of them pointed threateningly at the bellies of the villagers being presented in front of them. Even from here, Tooru can see how their bodies shake with terror.

“Now, now! What seems to be the fuss?” Tooru calls, the moment he is close enough to be heard over the noise of everything else. Immediately, all movement stops, and many pairs of hostile eyes turn towards him. The weapons of those closest flash menacingly, and he holds up his hands with a placating gesture, a smile in place. “I hardly think that will be necessary. I only want to talk.”

“So you finally show your face, O King Rat,” sneers the leader. His features are big and bulky, hair lank and black and framing his face like bits of dirtied straw. He does not stray from his spot under the oak, Tooru noticing with a quirk of his lips how safe a distance it is, perfect for spewing insults. “I am Raizo. You may be king everywhere else, but not here. Leave now, and I will allow you to walk away with your head attached to your shoulders.”

The ribbons are crimson red, wrapped in neat bows around the left wrists of those trembling in the center, and several off to the side. It is a bright enough color that only a glance is enough to notice them. There is a common expression on the faces of the villagers: desperation. _Please help us,_ they say. Tooru’s fingers twitch towards the hilt of his katana. 

“Raizo-san, you have done these people a terrible wrong.” He takes a step forward, and the vermin bristle. “I’m afraid I simply cannot allow you to stay. The daimyo of Aoba Johsai does not take kindly to those who bully his people.”

Raizo laughs, a grating sound, which encourages the chuckles of several of his men. Then, he leers, looking Tooru up and down. “On second thought, your men may leave, but I think you shall stay here.” He smiles, disgustingly. “You are prettier than I have heard, O King. A night with you, and I will forgive your samurai.”

Tooru must hold up his hand, a wordless command as more than one of those behind him snarl, and move as if to attack. His laugh is light, and he quietly decides that Raizo’s life shall now be taken by no one else but himself.

“I’m not an easy fuck, regrettably. You’ll have to try a little harder than that.” This time, he cannot stop the reflex as his hand grasps lightly onto the hilt of his sword. His warrior’s blood sings. “Since you are being so thoughtful, I will extend the same courtesy. Pay this town back every piece you have stolen from them, down the last copper coin. Get on your knees and prostrate for them. Then, you will come and serve a lifetime at the keep of Aoba Johsai. It will be hard work, but it is an honorable purpose. Do this, and your lives are spared. What do you think?”

“I think that you are a cartload of horse shit,” Raizo spits. Something about his posture is nervous, and his shifty eyes look repeatedly towards the western forest. “How about this instead—I kill every last one of your excuse for samurai, and I fuck you until you split open?”

Tooru’s katana is now glimmering like a quicksilver fish under the sunlight, and his smile is hard and cold. The sound of weapons leaving their casings echo behind him, and Raizo’s eyes are now looking desperately towards the forest, as if expecting a deer or boar to come running to his rescue.

“I think,” Tooru says slowly, “that you are going to regret not taking me up on my offer.” He raises his hand, and his voice, yelling into the open air, “Fire!”

And with that, a handful of his finest archers pop up over the nearby rooftops. Another moment, and the sound of whistling, and the dull thumps of arrows finding their targets. All of the six men that had stood in a line with weapons pointed at the helpless townsfolk, now dead with shafts sticking out of their chests, and in one case, right through the eye. _Must have been Keiji,_ Tooru thinks fondly, before stepping forward, and giving his katana something to bite into.

The fighting is exactly as difficult as he thought it would be, that is, not very. These swine slice at them with tanto and stab with naginata, but they move as if they had never brandished a weapon before. It is nearly embarrassing how clumsy and fumbling they are, and before long their blood is soaking into the dry earth of the plaza. Tooru flicks the red away from his katana, and looks up and around to survey their progress. Nearly half, if not more, of the vermin have been taken care of in the span of two minutes. If he were to take a stroll through the center, he would have to walk over a body every few steps. Tobio himself is a short distance away, making these men look like absolute fools. But he is taking it seriously—this is good practice for him. Tooru is glad that he chose this mission to be Tobio’s first.

“They promised it would not come to this!” one of them shouts to Raizo, who Tooru has not yet found the time to cut down. Upon the reminder, he begins to make his way carefully over, frowning. _They?_

Raizo sees him coming, and it is with great satisfaction that Tooru watches as he nearly trips over himself in his haste to scramble away. “Retreat! They will be here any moment! Retreat!”

He makes it as far as to where the oak’s shade ends, and then he gasps as a blade runs through his lungs and out the other side. It takes considerable effort for Tooru to pry his katana free, and his eyes are chilling as they look into that dying light.

“How pretty am I now?” he asks softly.

The remaining brigands make a frantic break for it, running in all directions like headless chickens.  “Should we allow them to retreat?” Kindaichi asks, Tooru turning to face him. He has barely broken a sweat. “You ordered us to not let any survive.”

Normally, Tooru would be ordering his men (who are not tired in the least) to chase after those who think they can slight him and get away with it. But something doesn’t feel quite right—his instincts are on edge, adrenaline pumping through his body even though the danger has passed. Something is wrong, and he can’t put his finger on why.

His ears suddenly perk at the sound of distant commotion. He can’t quite make out what is being said, but then Kyoutani, who looks angry and in a foul mood as usual, grunts quietly, “What are they screeching about?” His glowering eyes are narrowed further. “Who’s ‘ _here_ ’?”

 _They will be here any moment,_ is what Raizo had said. The faint shouting is coming from the western forest. “Reinforcements?” Tooru hazards a guess. Well, no matter. If they are as skilled as the first batch, then they have nothing to concern themselves over. But Tooru has now been properly conditioned to hate seeing Watari running towards him with that look on his face, so his stomach twists with appropriate unease. It only grows worse when he notices that a grim-faced Keiji sprints just ahead of him, his bow and quiver slung over his shoulder.

Watari begins to trip over his tongue even before he stops running, his face pale and shining with sweat. “We saw them, from the rooftops,” he gasps. “It was a trap. Shiratori—hiding—waiting for us—"

“ _What_ —"

“ _Ushijima—he’s **here** —"_

Tooru’s blood runs cold, stomach curdling. The news is delivered in choppy, broken-up pieces, but all he needs to understand is that one word. That one name. He looks to Keiji for clarification.

“We’ve been lured here,” Keiji explains flatly, voice dripping disgust. “It has all been a front. These pathetic mercenaries had most likely been planted here in order to goad us into deploying men to confront them. They waited for our arrival in the western forest. I did not notice them until just moments ago. Maybe fifty samurai, if not more. They have entered the village, and they are coming here.”

 _Stomp the grass to startle the snake, and lure the tiger from its mountain lair._ Create a fuss in an important mining town to grab the attention of the daimyo, and make it loud enough to tempt one of his generals away from the safety of the keep toward the coveted borderlands. Tooru clenches his jaw, hands balled into fists.

“Ushijima Wakatoshi is here?” Tobio asks, something in his eyes sparkling. The news does not horrify him the way it should. _You have not met him, Tobio. You have not sparred with him. You do not realize his strength. He could take your arm off with the blunt end of a scabbard._

But Wakatoshi is not the mastermind behind this trick. He is not capable of it. He is too simple. It is his father, Katsuo. Noboru was right—he believes he has rightful ownership over anything he desires. He’s had his eyes on those bordering hills for a long while now. It’s genius, in its own filthy way. He hires thugs to terrorize this village, knowing that Aoba Johsai would not bother sending the full power of its militia to subdue them, but that Noboru would not trust to job to anyone but his own flesh and blood. It’s an attack tailored to Tooru specifically—it is well-known that he is the youngest son, and the one most keen on strategy. The one most desperate to prove his worth. He would be the obvious choice for the job, especially while his brothers are away negotiating trade in neighboring factions.

Which is why Katsuo would not dare send anyone other than his prized cultivated bastard to defeat him.

“Change of plans,” Tooru hisses. “Yahaba!”

His cheek is smeared with someone else’s blood, but he looks like the previous fight has done very little to deplete his energy. He appears eager and raring to go. “Yes!”

Tooru pushes his pupil forward. “Keep Tobio next to you. Continue to help Karasuno evacuate as many civilians as you can and take them to the rice field. They should be safe there until the fighting is over. As for the rest of you—“

Tooru is already turning away, but Tobio has grasped onto his sleeve. His mouth is open in protest, eyes pleading. “But—“

Tooru rips his hands away. “I don’t want to hear it. You made me a promise. You are not ready for this. Go, and listen to Yahaba as if he were myself.” With a final push, Yahaba grabs Tobio’s arm and drags him away, even as he visibly digs his heels into the dirt.

Tooru cups a hand over his mouth, hollering in the air. “No one is to engage Wakatoshi but myself!” he roars, his men turning to stare at him with fiery eyes. “If you see him, turn the other way! Pick off as many Shiratorizawa samurai as you can, but that in itself is not an easy task! They are not like these bandits, and we are outnumbered! Do not underestimate _any_ of them!”

He lowers his voice and turns to Keiji. “They are coming from the west, you said? How much time do we have?”

Keiji considers him with his dark, flat eyes. “A minute, perhaps two at the most. His men are branching off in the alleyways to block off exits. The bastard is keeping to the back.”

“Perhaps we can try archers again?” Watari pipes up, his fingers twisting nervously.

Tooru nods. “Keiji, Watari, I want both of you back on the rooftops. Take my other best with you. Do anything you can to get above their heads.”

“Yes, my lord!” Watari says, before racing off. Keiji does not move, and he looks at Tooru steadily. His voice is little more than a murmur. “He knows you will come for him. Are you prepared for this?”

Tooru smiles wanly. “My dearest Keiji, I could prepare for another ten years and not be ready.” He swallows dryly, eyes closing for the briefest moment. “But I’m the best chance we have.”

And then he turns towards the western pathway, and braces himself.

This time, when enemies begin to spill into the courtyard, it is entirely different. It is clear from the first clash that these samurai of Shiratorizawa are trained, and trained well. It might have been manageable, if their numbers had been tipped more equally. But even as those numbers are steadily picked off by incoming arrows, it seems as if they are never-ending, streaming one after the other into the plaza and coming at Tooru’s warriors with no fear in their hearts. Tooru has only two hands, and only one sword, so he cannot fight them all, even though he wishes to. He would do anything to protect those that fight in his name. He would do anything to prevent what he is seeing now—enemy swords making contact, the blood of those he cares for spilling and mingling with the blood of gutter trash in the dirt. He can only fight one at a time, and even though he is efficient in his killing, he is only one man.

A man whose energy cannot last forever. He needs to leave this skirmish and search for Ushijima while he still has the breath; he won’t last for a minute if he is not still fresh. But to his dismay, it does not take long before he is panting from the constant exertion, and he cannot rest for even a moment. An enemy samurai aims for the back of Kindaichi as he is occupied with someone else, and in one swing Tooru takes off his hand; and then, while he screams, finishes the job with a sharp stab. Kindaichi dispatches his own foe, and looks over his shoulder at the loud sound behind him. His eyes widen at the body at his feet, and then at the blood dripping from Tooru’s sword.

“Thank you, my lord!” he exclaims breathlessly. He cannot be distracted for even a moment, as another fighter comes for him and he must block the strike before he’s eviscerated.

“Be careful!” Tooru calls, and he moves to engage a woman that is looking at one of one of his own with deadly promise. But it is then that a black blur streaks past him, followed by a distant shout.

“ _Stop!”_

Tooru swings his head around to see a beet-colored Yahaba, his already-round eyes comically filling his face. There is no boy at his side, and the pieces quickly come together. Tooru locates the black blur, already far down the main dirt path that leads to the west end of the village. His excessive armor is now notably absent, and his hair gleams nearly blue under the sun like a crow’s feathers.

“What is he doing,” Tooru says with a laugh, even though it’s not funny. Not even a little. Not even at all. “What does he think he’s _doing.”_

Unthinkingly, he begins to chase, dodging clumps of fighting samurai and praying that his archers are paying close enough attention to not mistake him for an enemy. He runs as fast as he can, and he is a fast runner, but Tobio is already twenty or so meters ahead of him. _“Tobio!”_ Tooru bellows, struggling to be heard over the cries of the dying, of iron on iron. He gulps in a huge breath, expelling it as loudly as he can. “Come back! Come back, _right now!_ ”

For a moment the boy pauses and looks over his shoulder, and for just that second a hint of relief soothes the burn in the back of Tooru’s throat. But then the boy opens his mouth to call back, “I’ll be fine!” before slipping through a narrow alley between two houses. Just like that, he’s gone, and Tooru makes a guttural noise of dismay.

Yahaba catches up to him a second later, panting like he had been chasing Tobio for as long as the fighting has lasted. Tooru grips fistfuls of his own hair and pulls until the sting makes his eyes water. He feels like he may vomit. “He’s not ready, _goddamn it all_ he’s not ready, he’s good but he’s only fifteen—“

“Yes, but, you said it yourself, Oikawa-sama,” Yahaba pants, hands on his knees. “He’s good. He—“ _wheeze_ “—he can hold his own with most of these—“ _gasp_ “—men.”   _He’s even bested you more than once, hasn’t he?_ goes unspoken. It’s true—Tobio has improved frighteningly fast in the two years that Tooru has nurtured his skills. He’s very good. And it were anyone else, Tooru would not be working himself into a panic.

But there is only one man that Tooru has never, not once, won against.

“Yes, _most_ of them.”

His meaning has Yahaba pause, something like horror spreading across his face, his mouth twisting with it. “You don’t think—“

Tooru whips around to glare at where Tobio last disappeared. “He can’t be that _stupid.”_

Except he _is._ He’s exactly that stupid, and exactly cocky enough to act on it. His tenacity was once something Tooru found endearing; his stubbornness a personality trait that will feed his ambition until he’s a samurai that is feared by the world. But it is this dogged resolve that has him thirst for _more—_ more practice, more experience, more opponents to learn from. More people to best or be bested by.

But none of these people had ever tried to kill him. None of them had ever truly lunged for the soft, vulnerable flesh of his throat. Tobio does not know how it feels to see the desire for his murder in another man’s eyes.

None of his opponents had ever been Ushijima Wakatoshi.

Tooru is at the mouth of the alleyway before he makes the conscious decision to move, Yahaba left behind him. Tobio has already disappeared—there is a set of earthen steps at the end of the path, rows of homes on either side. The stairs branch off at the top to the right and left, and Tooru wildly chooses left—it is towards the west end of the village, and if he is at all correct in his thinking, then Tobio will go where to he thinks that his rival is most likely to be.

_Stay alive until I find you, please stay alive until I find you._

He encounters two samurai of Shiratorizawa soon after. They do not show any sign of recognizing him—after all, he does not dress any different than his own men. He does not carry a fan as a symbol of his rank, and his scabbard is made of standard, undecorated leather strapped to his side. They do not know they face their enemy’s commander, and so they rush him without hesitation, katana raised.

A sharp horizontal cut. A tight spin, and then a backwards thrust. There are choked sounds, of bodies falling to the dirt. Without looking, Tooru knows their wounds are fatal. He does not stop to check. Another flick, and the blood dripping from his blade splatters the earth. He continues to run, keeping his katana’s hilt firmly in his hand.

_Please. Please. Please._

He does not pay any mind to his breathing. His focus cannot be wavered; he runs with tunnel vision, his legs propelling him with a single objective. Behind him, his samurai are fighting without their commander. Some are undoubtedly dying. Keiji, Watari, Kindaichi, Kyouken, Yahaba, Kunimi. Not just his warriors, but his friends. Do arrows remain in their quivers? Which of them are wounded? Which of them struggle to catch breath, to raise their blades and attack, again and again? These are the questions of a commander, and they are the ones furthest from his mind.  Instead, he thinks of sunny days in his castle’s courtyard. Smiling, laughing, dumping water over Tobio’s head. The way his pupil lights up after being praised. The way he grew from a dirty little orphan living among livestock, to becoming the envied personal project of the daimyo’s most talented son.  

Tooru thinks of his treasured little brother, and no one else.

So when he finally finds him, he does not process much else besides _he is alive._ He does not take note of the hoard of enemy samurai that gather here in this little courtyard. The ones that come at him are downed soon enough, anyway. They are insignificant obstacles that keep him from what needs to be protected. There is nothing that stops him—each soldier to stand in his way is taken care of with a single merciless stroke. His eyes don’t waver. One, two, three, four.  He watches that black hair gleam blue. The shoulders are heaving for breath, and when Tooru can see his face he sees that sweat is dripping from it. It is plastering hair to his forehead, his temples.  There are rips in what meager armor he did not remove, his arms and sides littered with gashes that splatter red below him. His lips are parted with labored breath and his eyes are lifeless. These are the eyes that have seen his own death. Tobio now sees what he couldn’t before—that he is not immortal, just because he is a prodigy. And that powerful men do not have mercy for prodigies.

Wakatoshi.

His eyes are flinty, cold and unforgiving as ever. He is batting away Tobio’s attacks as if they were nothing but bothersome gnats. Tooru had last seen him a year and a half ago—at the castle keep of Shiratorizawa, accompanying Noboru yet again on one of his missions to plea for fair trade. They had sparred, and Tooru had left the castle with a broken nose and a purple bruise that spanned his entire right side. They had used wooden staffs instead of katana, and that is the only reason Tooru survived the encounter.

And Ushijima is not a monster. That is the part that is the most terrifying. He is just a man.

(Which is all the more reason to fear him.)

He is a man, who has never considered underestimating a challenger. It is why he is not going easy on Tobio, who is only at the cusp of true adolescence, his body still growing. In the very least, Ushijima has made the fighting fair—his own general’s armor lies in a pile off to the side.  

(As if that will help tip the odds in any way whatsoever.)

Ushijima cuts upwards with his tachi. The blow is strong enough for Tobio to stumble backwards with the force of it, barely able to block the stroke. His rosy cheeks have gone white as rice flour. He furiously blinks sweat out of his eyes. And Ushijima isn’t allowing him time to recover before the sword is brought up again, poised to strike downward. Tobio still has not brought up his katana. He is looking at Ushijima’s tachi with a blank acceptance.

_He’s going to die._

There is no further thought. Tooru dives, bodily shoving Tobio out of the way.

He isn’t able to bring his katana up in time. The tachi slices down, and at first Tooru thinks that Ushijima’s missed, that it’s cut cleanly through the air—

That’s when he feels it.

A burning agony unlike anything he’s ever felt. His knee, his _leg—_ is his leg gone? He doesn’t have the spare time to check. He can’t afford to be distracted, not by even by this, not even for a second. _I have to save him._ But he staggers without meaning to, not even the adrenaline in his veins enough to support what simply cannot be supported anymore. 

The next thing he knows he receives a startling blow to his stomach. The air has been knocked out of him and it’s enough to unbalance him completely. He hits the ground, dirt in his mouth and something sticky on his hands. It’s a reflex that has him looking down, though he knows viscerally that he shouldn’t. _Red._ All of a sudden he sees _so much red,_ flowing unbidden from a wound so deep he sees the white flash of bone. Carved through muscle and tendon and skin like a gaping maw.

Tooru turns his head to the side, and vomits.

Catching his breath, eyes pinched shut and his body curled over the wound, fingers grasping over it like somehow his trembling fingers can pull his ruined flesh back together. He grits his teeth, remembering through the haze that this battle isn’t yet won, that Tobio is sprawled somewhere behind him and that the bastard prince still lives.

His eyes are blurry through the pain as he looks up, up, up, the raging sun casting the face that looks down upon him in shadow. It’s a familiar enough scene—Wakatoshi looking down at the beaten up body of Oikawa Tooru while his servants stand by and watch. The expression on the bastard’s face is calm and apathetic. There has never been anything mean-spirited about the way he operates. His motives are crisp, clean. Unlike his honorless father, there is nothing filthy or impure about him. He’s simply the victor—always the victor.

(He has no reason to fight dirty when he never loses.)

And Tooru has never hated someone more.

When his mouth is clear enough to speak, his voice is the most venomous he’s ever heard it. Never before has it been filled with such rage and fear and _hate._  “ _Fuck you_ , Ushijima, fuck you, he’s just a _boy,_ how _dare_ you _—"_

Ushijima’s head tilts to the side, looking down with something like perplexity. As if he does not understand what he has done to warrant such harsh words against him. “He was enough of a man to challenge me. I merely faced him the way he wanted me to.”

“ _He’s a child!”_

“So are you.”

Tooru bites viciously on his tongue, a scream waiting in the back of his throat. Ushijima looks behind Tooru, where it sounds as if Tobio is struggling to breathe. Ushijima’s eyes flick away, like he could not be bothered now that his two opponents are unable to entertain him. “This battle is over. You are their commander, and you have fallen. Call a surrender immediately, and I will spare your life.”

Tooru very nearly spits at his feet. “My life is not worth surrendering to a man like you.” 

Ushijima considers him for a moment. He looks again at Tobio. “I see that is not enough of an incentive. Fine then.”

He strides past Tooru, who swings his head to watch as the general of Shiratorizawa points his tachi at Tobio, whose face is so pale and sickly Tooru can’t believe his heart is still beating. He looks to already be a corpse. “Surrender immediately. If you refuse, then I kill the boy.”

He means it. Tooru knows he means it.

“Very well.” He wets his lips, eyes blurry with tears that he refuses to let fall. He had not even paused to consider the bargain. “I will surrender.”

He is lying in a pool of his own blood, and his head has begun to feel light on his shoulders. He feels Tobio staring at him in horror, but cannot quite manage to meet his eyes, as his own grow heavy. His ears ring, but they work long enough for him to hear, “You shall never be good enough to defeat me, Oikawa. Not you, and certainly not your disciple.”

His eyes slip shut.

“Remember this.”

 

* * *

 

The weeks following the battle are a confusing jumble of pain and numbness.

The return trip had been nonsensical—he only remembers bits and pieces, slipping in and out of consciousness. He sees flashes of the countryside, racing by on the back of Keiji’s horse. The town in which the battle had occurred was not equipped with the proper medical supplies to save his life. So, it had been the unanimous decision that he would be taken on ahead of the rest. Those less grievously injured would first be tended to in the village before they journeyed back to the keep.

(It is decided that the dead are to be buried in the surrounding forest.)

For the return back, his mangled leg had been bound in a makeshift splint and a tourniquet wrapped tight around his upper thigh. Still, the blood soaks through the fabric of his trousers and leaves a crimson stain all the way down his leg. Keiji runs his horse into the ground and they make it back in a single day, a feat not accomplished without sacrifice. The horse dies of exhaustion, collapsing almost as soon as they make it past the first of the gates.

The events following their return to the castle are some of the few he is, regrettably, conscious for. He is carried to a room in the infirmary under a flurry of panicked activity— _Oikawa-sama has been injured in battle, he has nearly bled out, Shiratorizawa ambushed them._ He misses the sweet, ignorant bliss of being out cold, because then he would not have to hear the constant reminders of his failure. It is like listening to words from underwater, but he can hear them. And then there is the pain. And oh, how it _hurts._ An entire bottle of sake is forced down his throat, in the hopes that he will be too drunk and weak to struggle when the needle and thread pull his muscle and skin back together. The hopes are in vain, and even with his blood splattered across half of Aoba Johsai, three people have to hold him down as he shrieks and thrashes, one person for each functional limb. Keiji covers his eyes with clammy hands so that he cannot look at what they are doing to him. Time is distorted when he is drunk, and it feels like a lifetime later that the last suture is knotted and Keiji uncovers his eyes. His face is green, and he looks at Tooru as if he is staring at a ghost.

And then Tooru lies on his mattress, and sweats.

It is a fever. Infection. The weakness of his body is unbearable. He has lost so much blood, and wore himself out while the physicians worked on his leg. And so he lies very still, and sleeps, and sweats. That is all he does. He sweats through everything that touches his skin, so they stop dressing him. He lies naked on a damp mattress and writhes, distantly hearing himself cry out as he jostles his injury. Even when it is covered in healing poultices, the wound of his leg festers. Or, what was once his leg. He does not know what it looks like, because he refuses to look. All he knows is what the others tell him. That the gash is ugly and inflamed, oozing pus and stinking of rotting flesh. That he may die from it. They speak of removing the limb completely, and Tooru starts to hallucinate. He sees Tobio sitting at the edge of his bed with a knife, and he watches in a dream-like state as the boy takes to work slowly, slowly carving away what is already ruined.

His mother comes to sit with him. She brushes the sweaty hair from his forehead, and lays kisses there. He has not allowed her to do that in years. But she is weeping, because they say he may die.

He does not, but a part of him wishes he does.

 

* * *

 

 

He is unconscious for a week, and when he wakes up, the fever has mostly passed and the infection has been subdued. The physicians had cut away the dead flesh as he slept, and so now he has even more sutures lining his knee. More scars.

He is too weak to sit up, and everything in his mind is still rather hazy, so he stays reclined as Keiji tells him what has happened. It is horrific enough that bile rises in his throat. Of Tooru’s men, eleven of the original thirty-three had been slaughtered. A third of them dead.

A bloodbath.

Among them—Yahaba. Kunimi. Watari. The guilt and shame sit heavy like a boiled stone in his stomach, and Keiji holds a wooden bowl out for him. Tooru has enough strength to roll onto his side so that he does not choke on his own vomit. The sensation of it reminds him of a time too soon to forget, and it makes him nauseous all over again.

The good news does not make him feel all that much better, but it is a soothing drop to keep him from unraveling completely. Thanks to the efforts of Karasuno, there was not a single civilian death. It is the very small bright spot in a sea of black. Because Karasuno fulfilled their promise, and Tooru could not fulfill his.

He does not deserve to live, when he has so spectacularly failed those who had believed in him the most.

 

* * *

 

 

Another week, and his thoughts become more coherent by the day. He becomes accustomed to being doted on by the physicians and their assistants, and he accepts their fuss even when it grates on his already-frayed nerves. _You lost so much blood,_ they say. _It is a miracle you survived. It is a miracle you did not lose your leg altogether._

Tetsurou visits him, and brings flowers that he plucked himself from the riverbank. Tooru smiles weakly, and jokes that he never expected to be courted this way. Tetsurou’s answering smile is thin-lipped and grim. His eyes spell murder, and Tooru knows whose blood Tetsurou thirsts for.

(He does not know where Tobio is, and he does not ask.

His disciple does not come to visit, and he’s not entirely sure he wants him to.)

* * *

 

 

Rehabilitation is slow, and it frustrates him.

It starts with sitting upright for long periods without assistance, and moving his leg just a little, even if it is to simply encourage circulation. He forces himself to eat even when he is no longer hungry, because he needs as much energy as possible in order to heal. He makes himself look at his wound for the first time, to see how bad the damage is. And it is more difficult than he imagined. The sutures are made of thin strands of silk that have been stained brown with his blood—they run deep, layers of them below what is stitched on top. They had been done masterfully in neat rows, but it is hard to appreciate that when he sees what they are attempting to hold together. The bruising is horrific, even weeks later; his flesh is puckered into multiple sour ridges, the muscle and skin forcibly intimate thanks to the physician’s thread.  It is incredibly sore to the touch, and a cool ointment of chamomile is the only way to soothe it.

Looking at what has become of him, it is the first time in his life he has truly felt ugly.

 

* * *

 

 

As the weeks pass, he works to keep it stretched, so that the scarring muscle does not become too stiff.  He pushes himself to make up for the weeks of strength training he should have been doing when he was running fever. Tetsurou helps him with exercises to keep his knee extended, and then, when he feels ready, they work on flexion. He can stand, but must rely heavily on Tetsurou’s shoulder. Any weight bared on his right leg sends a shooting ache all the way to his bones; the pain is dizzying, and he must sit back down soon after.

His quarters receive many visitors during these days of confinement. There is a particularly exciting afternoon in which he is blessed with the company of both Takahiro and Issei, as they come together. By the time they leave, he is thoroughly exhausted, and must lie down to rest. His mother comes to see him most days, as do Tetsurou and Keiji.  His brothers have returned home but he has not seen them. Noboru does not come to him, and Hoshiko says that he is busy, but Tooru knows the truth. That seeing his prized son crippled; seeing the physical manifestation of his bright future smothered out in a single day—it would be too much. 

_But I am the one who suffers, Father. I am the one who should be angry._

And when he realizes this—that is when the waiting bitterness begins its metamorphosis. First, it is irritation. His sutures itch, and he has not had a proper bath in at least a month. His knee is still too swollen for him to comfortably perform his daily exercises. It is irritating, but he endures it.

The irritation blossoms into anger.

He cannot do anything he was once able to do. He cannot move anywhere without help—Tetsurou has forbidden him from moving anywhere beyond these four walls without his arm to hold onto. _I don’t want you to fall and hurt yourself even more,_ is his reasoning. And that is fair. But for how long? Will it be like this forever? Everything he’s done; seventeen years’ worth of backbreaking work, honing his skill, perfecting his strategy—

Will there come a time where he actually gets to use them? Have all of his dreams been dashed before he even got the chance to live them?

_Will I ever walk on my own again?_

It is with Tetsurou hovering nearby that Tooru tries to take his first steps unassisted. His holds out his arms for balance, and his legs are slightly spread to center himself. He grits his teeth, and tests his weight on his right leg—not bad. It hurts, but it is bearable. With a breath of relief, he presses down harder, all of it at once, so that he can take the step and shift his weight to his left. It is then that he cries out, the pain excruciating, and his leg crumples underneath him. He slams to the floor, palms smacking against the tatami. He stares down at his fingers as his nails dig into the woven straw.

_This is not your fault._

Something inside him snaps, and suddenly he is filled with a frightening, blind fury.  

_It’s **his.**_

“Bring him to me.”

Tetsurou had rushed to him, already reaching for his leg so that he can check the sutures for signs of damage. He looks up, brows furrowed. “What?”

Tooru’s nostrils flare. The rage tastes like acrid sulfur in his mouth. “Find Tobio, and bring him to me.”

Tetsurou looks at him, alarmed. His mouth flaps. “Ah, Tooru. Now is probably not the best moment to have this conversation with him—“

“ _Bring him to me.”_ Spitting venom, he is worse than a viper.

Tetsurou stands, and leaves the room. Tooru stretches out his leg in front of him, clinically examining the wound. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing behind the broken ridge of skin. It hurts. This useless, ugly, disgusting leg. He should have just cut it off himself when he had the chance. He should have made Ushijima kill him while the offer was extended. What is the point of living now?  He has no purpose. His purpose was stolen from him—by a boy, by an orphan that believed himself too good to listen to the man that raised him up from _nothing._

His expression is calm when Tobio is led into the room. Tetsurou lingers, unsure if he should stand between Tobio and whatever is coming for him. Tooru flicks his wrist dismissively.

“Leave us.”

Tetsurou does, after a moment of hesitation. He slides the shoji door closed after him, and then it is quiet. Tooru is still sitting on the floor. He is still unbathed—his hair is oily and unkempt. He wears a simple robe that does not cover his wound. _Good._ He wants Tobio to look at it. He wants him to see the fruits of his betrayal.

Tobio stands straight as a post beside the door. Tooru can see sweat beading above his lip; he watches as a tongue licks it away nervously.

“You never visited me.”

Tobio glances up, eyes wide. Tooru’s expression has not changed. He does not offer for Tobio to take a seat at one of the floor cushions that dot the room.

“I—“

“Is this how you thank the man who saved your life?” Tooru asks, just a hint of a smile at his lips. Tobio knows him well enough not to take it as a friendly gesture. His face pales. “All this time, and I don’t even get a simple ‘thank you’?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” Tooru grins. Tilts his head. “You feel bad about what you’ve done. You regret it deeply.” A laugh. “But not enough to bring me flowers or sweets? Not enough to come hold my hand as I lay on my death bed? My, my, Tobio-chan. I thought we were closer than that.”

He does not reply, his head hung low between his shoulders. He is shaking.

Tooru takes a deep breath, and lets it out gustily. He decides that he is done playing pleasantly. “I am your commander, Tobio. My word is law, and you broke yours.”

Tobio takes a step forward all at once, his voice risen high, his eyes sparkling with unshed wetness. “I…I’m sorry. Oikawa-san, I thought I could—“

“ _I don’t want your worthless apologies.”_

His jaw snaps shut with an audible _click._

Tooru does not raise his voice. He keeps it low, simmering. He wants Tobio to hear every word, and feel how they burn. “You disobeyed me. You disrespected me. Your defiance cost me more than could ever be repaid. You understand that, don’t you?”

Tobio swallows, chin tucked into his chest. He does not meet Tooru’s eyes.

“I may never be able to walk normally again. There is a chance my father will demote me, as I am no longer fit to lead a front line.” It is as he says this, that he realizes it to be true. That to his family, he is now nothing more than just another mouth to feed, and no amount of effort will bring back what once was.

“ _You_ took that from me. Your mistake cost me _everything._ Everything that I’ve been working for since before I can remember.”

Tobio looks like he will be physically sick, and Tooru does not allow himself to hesitate. He cuts down, more viciously than even Ushijima.

“You are no longer welcome in Aoba Johsai.”

Tobio finally looks up, and it is to simply stare at him. Uncomprehending.

Tooru closes his eyes. His head throbs. His knee aches. His heart feels as if it is cracking into two. “I can’t even look at you anymore. I can’t look at you and not see his face. I can’t look at you and not feel the pain all over again.”

“I—"

“I want you to leave,” Tooru says, opening his eyes. They are as cold and frosty as ice. “And I want you to never come back.”

There are no words, no way to possibly describe the look on Tobio’s face. Tooru has never seen a human being with that expression before, so he has no name for it. All he knows is that looking at it makes him feel like he is dying. It makes his chest rip and it is so hard to breathe. Why does Tobio insist on killing him? Why does Tooru allow his murderer to walk free?

“Get out.”

Tobio ( _my sweet, stupid Tobio)_ turns without a word, and the door slides shut quietly behind him. The silence he leaves behind feels like a palpable weight on Tooru’s eardrums.  It is so quiet that when he begins to weep, it is a shattering sound that hurts his own ears. _There is no need to cry. That will not make the pain any better._ The voice is faceless from some distant memory, and he ignores it, because he has no other way to keep this agony from eating him alive. He curls into himself, tears streaking in great ugly drops, his voice broken and keening, throat grated raw. He weeps at the loss of his body; of any chance of greatness he ever had.

But most of all, he weeps at the loss of a brother, and of the purest love he has ever felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO it was brought to my attention that the first chap of this fic was published more than a year ago wtf??? For some reason i thought it was published in September…can’t believe its been this long already lmao. We are now officially over 40,000 words in and they haven’t even kissed?? Havent even been genuinely nice to each other??? Like this slow burn is hurting me too I didn’t think I would actually be able to take it this far lol cant wait to see where this baby is in another year! Could be ended by then, could still be going strong! Who knows! Mystery! 
> 
> anyway, next chapter we shall resume the love fest between the worlds most affectionate husbands lolll ngl it kind of pained me not having any interaction between them but these events are SO important to the plot and oiks/kags relationship, i kinda let it get away from me a lil bit but whatevs. anyway, i hope you enjoyed! OH and i might take a long time again bc i want to tie up a few WIPs before i lose all motivation completely. thank you for you support, i love you all!! 
> 
> ohhotlamb.tumblr.com


	9. umbriel

He’s humiliated.

Because with the warm glow of the flames, it is impossible to hide the way his eyes are glistening. When he swallows, he must work over the knot there. A deep breath in, and then out. Focusing on keeping himself together. It had been harder than he anticipated; he is amazed that he was able to get it out at all. In a single word, it had been—

Excruciating.

He doesn’t want to see the way Iwaizumi is looking at him, so he keeps his eyes on the fire. It must be more of that pained contriteness, that half-arsed pity. He had felt the steady gaze on the side of his face the entire time that he spoke, and even as he finishes it does not leave. Why had he been prodded into sharing this at all? It had accomplished nothing but satisfy Iwaizumi’s sick curiosity. _Now he knows._ Now he knows of Tooru’s greatest failure, and his greatest tragedy. And what does he get in return? The empty promise that his nominal husband won’t starve himself?

“Well?” Tooru asks, into the silence, with a wet-sounding, bitter chuckle. Most of the others have retired to their sleeping pallets by now, and he works to keep his voice below the crackle of the flames. “You must be thrilled. I’m everything you hoped me to be. A failure of a commander, who could not even successfully captain a single boy.”

Instead of answering, Iwaizumi brings his bowl to his lips, and takes an enormous mouthful of chilled porridge. It fills his cheeks so completely he looks like a forest chipmunk preparing for a long winter. Tooru doesn’t know if it was intentional, but he can’t keep himself from letting out a startled laugh. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Is it succeeding?” Iwaizumi replies with difficulty, his mouth still full.

“Perhaps a little.”

He watches with an odd sort of amusement as Iwaizumi struggles to swallow, pulling a face as the large glob of food slinks down his throat. He grimaces when it hits his stomach, having been empty for who knows how long. But he finally takes his chopsticks in hand, this time taking a moderately sized bite. “Turning out those who ignore orders is standard practice,” he says, a bit slurred around the porridge. “Although fifteen is a bit young to be serving in the first place.”

“You’re siding with him.” Tooru doesn’t know why that stings so much.

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “I’m not. There are those who would have had him hung for what he did. Your punishment was almost too fair. You knew that he had a place to go to, and that they would not turn him away.” Iwaizumi looks at him strangely. “Even after all that, you treated him kindly.”

Tooru swallows. “You don’t understand what we were like.”

Iwaizumi considers that. “Maybe not. But does he seem to be suffering to you? He is cared for deeply at Karasuno. They have allowed him to rise through the ranks, and may soon be second-in-command. What you did…it didn’t ruin his life.”

“I don’t remember telling you I cared if I ruined his life.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “You didn’t need to. The way you spoke of him—" He grapples, then, for the right word, Tooru feeling terribly exposed, “well, it is obvious that you cared. That you still do.”

Tooru doesn’t reply at first. He refrains from turning his head and looking back into the darkness of the cavern where the light doesn’t touch; he refrains from looking for a head of silky black, safe and sound and asleep.

“He is a traitor, and once we are done here I will be glad to never see him again. He can crawl back into his hiding hole and rot for all I care.”  

“Again with the lying. Do you ever grow tired of it?” Iwaizumi stretches his legs out in front of him with a soft groan, looking down at his half-full bowl with a certain amount of dislike. _Look at the pot calling the kettle black,_ Tooru thinks sourly, remembering from the other day the instinctive feeling that in Iwaizumi’s heart waits a lie of his own.

“Tell yourself what you must. But before you cut him away completely, perhaps the two of you should speak.”

“About what?”

Iwaizumi shrugs. “The guilt you both feel. The resentment.”

“I do not feel _guilty—”_

Iwaizumi ignores him, and continues speaking over his furious denial. “I believe you will be happier if you come to an understanding. He may not become your brother again, though it is better than hating every hair on his head.”

Tooru closes his mouth, and stares at Iwaizumi incredulously. Iwaizumi glowers.

“I _am_ capable of empathy, despite what you so desperately want to believe. I do not have siblings like you do, but I know what it is like to share a bond that cannot so easily be broken.”

Tooru remembers sitting in his father’s chambers, straining to recall what he’d heard of the young general Iwaizumi, soon-to-be daimyo of Seijou, other than brute strength and thick tenacity. _His soldiers would follow him into hell._ And it’s not just because of his commanding prowess. It’s because of moments like these. To any soldier who speaks to him when he’s like this, it would be impossible to deny this man anything.

“And as for Ushijima, well,” Iwaizumi smiles grimly at the fire. “I would like to meet him.”

“You wouldn’t win,” Tooru says immediately, a chill running down his spine. _Don’t challenge him. He will kill you._ “You wouldn’t last a minute.”

“I said _meet,_ not _fight,”_ Iwaizumi snorts. “He sounds interesting, if nothing else.”

“For your sake, I hope you do not meet,” Tooru says. “Because if I am there with you, blood will be spilt, one way or another.”  This, he knows for sure. The damage to his pride, and the visceral anger he feels to this day...they would not allow him to leave an encounter without attempting to reclaim what little honor he has left. And if he dies in the process, well. He hadn’t let himself worry about that.

Iwaizumi rubs tiredly at his eyes, setting his bowl down on the ground by his feet. There is about a quarter left, but Tooru does not point that out. It is better than nothing. “Sleep, Oikawa. We will reach our destination tomorrow, if we keep to schedule. It is important that you are well-rested.”

He is indeed very tired. His eyes burn from having wind and snow whipped into them all day. He stands, arms reaching above his head, cracking vertebrae. Iwaizumi makes no move to do the same, and Tooru frowns. “Aren’t you coming?”

He shakes his head. “I’m taking the first watch. Everyone is exhausted.”

Tooru furrows his brows. “You need sleep, too.”

Iwaizumi sends him an unbearable smirk. “Oh? You care?”

“If you stumble down the mountainside, I am not going to retrieve you.”

Iwaizumi waves him off. “I wouldn’t dare inconvenience you in such a way and then not be alive to glean pleasure from it. I will be fine. Koutarou promised to relieve me in several hours.”

Tooru glares at him. “Don’t wake me when you come to bed.”

“I would never. Watching you wake up once in the morning is enough for me; I cannot imagine something more horrific than seeing that demon’s face twice.”

Tooru sneers, and barely keeps himself from stomping to their sleeping arrangements, silently cursing Iwaizumi and the day he was born. But it is as he is nesting himself deep under the layer of furs and cotton that he notices that after sharing this small bit of himself, bringing his past sins to the surface—it feels relieving. Not good, because he doubts he could ever truly feel good again, but it is something.

It is a start.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day of riding is harder, because it is as they leave the mountainside cave early in the morning that they are greeted by nothing less than a blizzard. Snow lashes into their faces hard enough to sting, so their fur-lined hoods are pulled forward as much as possible. It keeps them at a snail’s pace, as the guides riding in front must take extra care not to lead them off the edge of a cliff.

It also makes Tooru irritable, on top of what had already turned out to be an irritable start to his day. Tetsurou had tried to corner him earlier as they ate breakfast, a determined set to his mouth, and Tooru had absolutely no intention of hearing him out. Instead, he had limped over on a wretchedly stiff knee as quickly as possible to force Aone to partake in one-sided conversation with him. It was as unsuccessful as he imagined, but in his peripheral vision he watched with satisfaction as Tetsurou slunk away sullenly, his intentions foiled. For some reason, avoiding Tetsurou leaves him in a mood that’s even more sour, and it becomes only worse when he requires another good shove to his rear end to mount his horse, much to his anguish. This time, he had asked the assistance of Sugawara, who had accepted with a smile and then had all but thrown Tooru onto the back of his mare. It leaves him slightly winded, and Sugawara simply smiles again before retreating to the back of the group with the rest of the Karasuno people.

Once they began riding again, it is then that it becomes clear that the weather is not in their favor. To top it off,  there is no scenery, only a harsh wall of white, and all he has to look at is the back in front of him (Iwaizumi’s). He has no one to talk to, and he misses Tetsurou’s lively chatter in his ear. But his friend has not yet been punished sufficiently, so he must wait another day _at least. Petty,_ says the snide voice inside him. _Justified,_ he shoots back.

It becomes apparent that he is not the only one on edge. The air is rife with tension between the riding party, a distinct line between the clans. More than once Tooru fears that they will be guided off the mountain face on purpose, so strong is the dislike that radiates from Futakuchi and his comrade towards Seijou. Only his own presence reassures him of their safety - he is too good a friend to Aone, and too valuable to Datekougyou, for there to be any real danger. Still, their directions are clipped and gruff, even though they must shout to be heard over the sharp whistle of the wind. This, in turn, makes Bokuto angry. He can not do anything about it, as he would have to ride past his lord in order to do so. So he stays quiet, simmering, and Tooru waits for the lid to burst.

It comes when they take a moment to rest, to drink melted snow from their waterskins and eat salted dried meats. Tooru does not want to deal with the embarrassment that would come with mounting his horse a second time, but the idea of not stretching his legs and back is even more unappealing. He more or less tumbles from the back of his horse with a hiss of discomfort, stumbling when his feet hit the snow. He steadies himself by the shoulder of his mare. She shakes snow from her rump with a loud breath, and he pats her neck.

“Apologize.”

Tooru freezes, Bokuto’s voice being unmistakable, though uncharacteristically quiet. He turns to see exactly what he had been dreading — Bokuto’s face inches from Futakuchi’s, lip curled. Tooru looks for Iwaizumi, who usually has a special nose for Bokuto’s belligerence, but it seems he is occupied elsewhere.

“No.” Futakuchi is smart, but stubborn, and loves nothing more than burrowing his way under people’s skin. He must understand why Bokuto is angry, but sees no reason to feel sorry for it. His face is smooth and expressionless, contrasting the way Bokuto’s skin has turned ruddy, his already-extreme eyebrows furrowed even more so.

“My lord may ignore your disrespect, but I will not. You will apologize to him personally for your insufferable attitude, or you’ll answer to _me_.”

“I refuse.” And then, before Bokuto can indignantly reply, he continues with a certain amount of venom, “You have no idea how much your own plundering of our lands weakened us. Left us _susceptible.”_

Bokuto’s jaw drops. “You turn the blame onto us? When we were completely within our _right—”_

“Oh, please, save me your gloating. I do not care what you believe you were entitled to, but I can not forgive the pain you’ve caused my people.” When he takes a breath, it wavers, and he briefly closes his eyes, as if clutching desperately onto his self-control. Bokuto frowns, pulling his head back enough to return some of the space he’d stolen, but Futakuchi isn’t finished. His cheeks are turning pink, an uncharacteristic ripple marring his smug composure. “You cannot possibly understand how we are feeling, knowing our people are being picked off like lambs in the jaws of wolves. The women taken as if they are little more than goods to be sold. The rest being slaughtered like _animals_ .” His voice breaks, and he glances away. His fists are balled at his sides, quivering. “So forgive me if my manners are not my first priority, _captain._ ”

Bokuto stares at him, lost for words.

“I am upholding my end of the bargain. I am escorting you, _safely,_ to the mountain villages. If I choose to do so without a smile on my face, then that is my choice. If that offends you, then I suggest you look elsewhere.”

And with that, he turns and walks stiffly away back to his horse, leaving Bokuto to dazedly stare after him. Tooru feels sick to his stomach. He had known this situation was dire and that much was at stake. But seeing Futakuchi, someone normally so put together, falling apart at the seams...it’s sobering, and shame washes over him. From the start, he had seen this journey as a chore - something he must put up with as the new bride of Seijou, to improve economic standing and clan relations. Only now does he see this for what it really is; not just a peace offering, but a rescue mission.

Suddenly, there is a looming presence behind him, and Tooru turns. It’s Aone, watching Bokuto stare blankly at the snow at his feet. “He grew up in one of them,” Aone says, his voice gentle as it always is. Tooru tilts his head, a question at the tip of his tongue, but then he understands, and he swallows it back down. _Futakuchi grew up in one of the villages._

Tooru makes a soft sound, sympathy and dismay. Aone does not look at him. His sharp eyes sweep out over the valleys and peaks of white, the tip of his nose pink. He is like Futakuchi, in that he is difficult to read, and Tooru wonders how deeply this has been eating at him.

“His younger sister. Gone. Taken. It has been half a year.” Only then does he look at Tooru, mouth flat, the sadness visible in his eyes only now that Tooru knows to look for it.

“It has not been easy.”

 

* * *

 

 

They reach their destination in the late afternoon.

The blizzard has somewhat settled, and the snow no longer comes at them horizontally. It falls as it should, in soft flakes. The sky is a field of dark grey, and the air smells clean, and of pine. From up here, they can look down upon the valley. It is vast, spanning almost as far as the eye can see, and from their vantage point they can see how it curves like a shallow bowl, as if it were once the mouth to a pit of fire. Right now, it is a blanket of white, the left-hand side what looks to be an enormous iced-over lake, beside it the winter remains of farming fields. To the right lies the villages. They are scattered at uneven intervals from each other, from this high up the cottages little more than smatterings of dark color.

Their trek down the mountainside is slow, and it invokes a certain amount of impatience, as they would all love nothing more than to eat something warm and take shelter from the snow. But everything must be taken slowly, and it is another two hours before they have crossed the barren fields and reached the first of the villages. It is a collection of twenty or so houses, centered around a well and backed by evergreen trees. The ground here is by no means flat, and most of the homes are risen on gentle knolls, the stone paths that lead to them invisible under the snow. The roofs are steep and thatched with what looks to be water reed from the lake. It is a quaint place, and deathly quiet. A man has come to greet them, several other curious and wary villagers peeking out of their homes as they approach.

“Welcome,” the man smiles. He sounds very young, but there are lines in his skin, and grey in his hair. He looks indescribably tired, and he wears grief like a cloak. He bows, first to Aone, and then to Iwaizumi and Tooru. “You have come a long way. I cannot thank you enough.”

“It is our honor,” Iwaizumi replies, bowing shallowly in return. “From here on out, I guarantee your village’s safety.”

“That is good to hear,” the man replies, sounding as if he doesn’t quite believe that. His eyes flicker over, and then light up. “Ah, welcome home, Kenji.”

Futakuchi steps forward, his face soft, feet crunching in the snow. He pulls back his hood, and flakes settle into his dark hair. “It is good to see you, Yutaka,” he says quietly. “How is my mother faring?”

Yutaka’s smile falters. “You should go visit her as soon as you can. Ever since Fumi was taken…” he shakes his head, eyes downcast. “Seeing you will lift her spirits.”

Futakuchi’s face is pinched, and his teeth are biting into his bottom lip. He glances at Aone. Silent words are exchanged, Aone nods, and Futakuchi lopes away into the snow, leaving them in favor of one of the cottages. He slides open the thick wooden door without knocking, and the faint light from an inside fire leaks out onto the glistening white. He speaks to someone unseen for a moment before slipping through, sliding it quietly shut behind him.

“I’m sorry, we do not have any inns with which to warm yourselves,” Yutaka speaks up then, regretfully, and Tooru tears his eyes away. His heart sinks just slightly. “Rarely do travelers pass through here, and as of late no one has dared to visit this place. There are six other villages in the valley, all less than a twenty-minute walk from each other. You are more than welcome to visit all of them, though none offer lodgings.”

Tooru doesn’t know why he’s so disappointed. There is no reason that this tiny, isolated community would have the capacity to cater to a group of their size, small as it may be. He swallows his disappointment, and Yutaka frowns even more, looking over at the cottages.

“Our homes are not large, but perhaps we would be able to make some room -”

“No, that’s perfectly alright,” Iwaizumi interrupts him firmly. “We will set up our encampment right at the edge, and we will be just fine.” He gestures to his men behind him. “Clear as much snow as you can and unpack your horses. Koutarou, I want there to be a fire burning by the time I am back.”

“Yes, my lord!”

Iwaizumi then touches Yutaka’s elbow gently, leaning in slightly to murmur in a low voice as the others disperse. “I would like to speak with you privately, if that is alright.”

Yutaka’s eyes widen, but he nods just the same. “Oh, please. This way.”

They are ushered into one of the cottages, and Tooru breathes a gentle sigh of relief when the warmth of the fire reaches him. The floor is mostly packed earth, with the fire in a sunken hearth near the middle. A pot of simmering stew is hung above it, and the smell is heavenly enough for Tooru to sway on his feet. There is a raised wooden platform near the rear of the house, where there are futons and bedding folded neatly and put out of the way. Here, a woman and two small children sit with their supper. They look up with surprise when the three of them enter; the woman quickly sets her bowl down and rises, stepping off the platform to walk across the small space to greet them.

“This is my wife, Tomoe. And these are my children, Hitomi and Ren.”

The children have a slightly fearful look about them, and the worry lines etched into Tomoe’s face rivals her husband’s. Her smile is genuine, but the sorrow behind it is tangible. “Would you like anything to eat?” she asks, gesturing towards the warm food above the hearth. “You two must be starving after your travels.”

As much as Tooru would love to accept, he can’t help but picture the rest of their group clearing snow for their campsite with empty bellies, and he regretfully shakes his head. “No, thank you. We’ve eaten plenty.”

She tilts her head. “Tea, then?”

“That would be lovely.”

Yutaka sets several straw mats around the fire, old and moth-bitten cushions atop them. Tomoe removes the stew from the hook above the fire and replaces it with an iron kettle, setting the water to boil. They are ushered to the fire. “Please, sit.”

Tooru extends his hands to the flames, warming his numbed fingers. They are soon served cups of hot tea, and Yutaka lights a pipe, taking a long drag from it and letting smoke curl from his mouth. “Ask whatever you need to. I will answer as much as I can.”

Iwaizumi cuts straight to the chase. “Where are they hiding?”

Tomoe looks uneasily at her two children. “My sweets, please take your food to Sakunami-san’s house. I will come fetch you when we are done here.”

It is silent until the children take their bowls and leave, and then Yutaka sighs. “They usually come down from the mountains, from the eastern peaks that overlook the lake. The last attack was a week and a half ago.”

Tooru takes a sip from his teacup. “Here?”

Yutaka shakes his head. “No, it was the village furthest to the north from here. Two men were killed and three women were taken, along with most of their food supply for the winter.”

“How often are the attacks? And for how long have they been occurring?”

“We can usually count on one a month. They’ve been happening for nearly a year now.”

 _A year?_ Tooru frowns. He has not been away from Aoba Johsai for nearly that long; he had heard nothing of this from his father, though it is impossible he was unaware, close to the lords of Datekougyou that he is. That could only mean that for whatever reason, he deemed the information unnecessary to share.

Tomoe sets her own cup down in her lap, the sad lines in her face seeming to sag with the weight of her grief. “There are only two women left in this village. Myself, and Kenji’s mother. All the young women were stolen. Anyone who gets in their way is slaughtered. My brother was one of them. Futakuchi-san had to watch her own daughter be dragged away in the middle of the night. We—” her voice cracks, and she bites her lip, tears sparkling in her eyes.

“We live in fear of when our children will also be preyed upon,” Yutaka murmurs. “Each day that Hitomi grows older, is another day closer to when she could be taken from us. Another day that Ren could die trying to stop them. You cannot imagine the dread we feel.”

Tomoe turns her face away, hand covering her mouth. Tooru’s heart is pounding, the sick feeling returning to his stomach. It is like he is feeling their own horror for himself, the fear bone-deep and debilitating.

Iwaizumi leans forward, his expression severe. “They do not deserve the courtesy of negotiation, or mercy,” he starts, his fingers curled into hard fists on his thighs. “But unfortunately, for the time being, we need to keep them alive in order to learn the whereabouts of the women.”

Tomoe wipes wetness away from her eyes. “What will you be negotiating?”

“No matter what, their lives will be extended in exchange for information. The difference will lie in whether they will come easily, or by force. It will also be up to you whether you want to use them afterwards.”

Yutaka takes a drag from his pipe. “What do you mean?”

“If you choose to keep them alive, after they have fully reimbursed you, they will be sent to work in servitude near the keep of Datekougyou. Hard labor for the rest of their lives. In the fields, or in the forges. The fruit of their work will be sent directly back to you in order to help this place rebuild.”

Yutaka’s eyes narrow. “And if we decide against it?”

Iwaizumi shares a glance with Tooru, his eyes cold. “Then once we find out what we need from them, their lives will belong to you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Yutaka shares with them all he can. The thugs’ weapons of choice are naginata and crude short swords. They often set fires in order to draw attention away from the looting, a tactic that Tooru is all too familiar with. It is unknown whether they are working independently or under the orders of some greater power. Their group could be no more than twenty, though their skill and brutality is that of a number far greater. It is decided that going to search for them in the mountains would be disadvantageous; in unknown territory and from a lower vantage point, it would be a fool’s errand. So they will wait for the thieves to come down from their roost, and they will be prepared for the worst.

The conversation runs for nearly two hours, and by the time they are done, the kettle is emptied and the sun has descended. The two of them had bled every last bit of information they could out of Yutaka and Tomoe. When they are finished, Tomoe leaves to fetch her children, and Yutaka bids them goodnight. The two lords then walk side-by-side in the snow back to the rest of their party; the campsite is in clear view, illuminated by a brilliant fire, and they are drawn by the sound of familiar voices.

When they arrive, Bokuto accosts them immediately to ask after their meeting, Tetsurou conspicuously absent. Then, it is a quick supper, and a retreat for their tent that has been erected for them. Now, Tooru’s belly is warmed with porridge ( _again_ \- he wonders if there will come a point in which he simply can’t stomach another mouthful) and he’s more or less comfortable among the furs. He had been able to guilt-trip Iwaizumi into eating something (a few bites of dried meat) and now they must sleep, for tomorrow they will travel around the lake to scout entry points from the mountains; the more exact they can expect the arrival of the thieves, the more prepared they will be to deal with them.

Except falling asleep is even more difficult than usual, and it has nothing to do with the temperature or the fact that hardly any space at all separates his body from his husband’s (after all, there is no way that could possibly bother him, not after the past humiliations he’s been through). Tooru groans, rolling over and trying to cram bedding over his ears. “Must Yamaguchi walk around with those wretched bells? I would sooner fall asleep in the middle of a typhoon.”

Iwaizumi grunts. “He says that it helps to keep him alert.”

“He is keeping the rest of us alert as well,” Tooru grumbles, sitting up in the dark, a full-body shiver rolling through him as the outside air reaches his back. He ought to be grateful that he has not had to keep watch this entire journey, but he can’t help but be annoyed when his precious sleep is being snatched from him by the incessant tinkling.

“You would fall asleep if you stopped talking.”

“I am unfamiliar with the concept,” Tooru says wryly.

This time, Iwaizumi snorts. It is very nearly a laugh. There is rustling, and Tooru can faintly see his silhouette as he sits up as well, his face invisible in the inky dim. “Would you like me to sing to you instead? I know several effective lullabies. Or perhaps I could plait your hair. I hear that is rather soothing.”

Tooru smiles, and then bites his lip to stop himself from doing so. What is he _doing?_ He is glad it is too dark to see clearly. The mood is bizarrely relaxed, and he’s not quite sure what to do with it. It is strange, especially with someone he is so used to feeling on-edge with. “Very tempting. If only my hair were long enough.”

His mouth falls open, the breath catching in his throat, when he unexpectedly feels a hand pat at his face, working blindly in the dark until it reaches the top of his head. Fingers tug gently through the unkempt strands, oily and tangled from days on the road. “It is nearly to your shoulders,” Iwaizumi says softly. “That seems plenty long enough to me.”

“Are you saying you know how to plait hair?” Tooru replies lightly, gently turning his face away, enough to say what he simply can’t. _Stop touching._ He is wound tight as a drum, heart fluttering, though It seems as though he is no longer capable of saying those words aloud. _Why?_ He had once been prepared to slit his husbands throat, should he decide to lay an unconsenting hand on him. But that was before—

Before what? They traveled together? Before Tooru had spilled himself, open and honest and raw? Before they had slept together in the most literal sense, Tooru encroaching upon boundaries that he himself had laid down, and never once being punished for it?

And so he merely turns his head, saying nothing, and Iwaizumi must understand, because the next moment his hand is gone, as though it were never there in the first place. _What I find unfair is how you are allowed to touch me, but I am not allowed to touch you._ Tooru’s chest is tight. Just for a moment, he hates himself, and he does not know why.

“I am a man of many talents,” Iwaizumi says then, quite seriously. Tooru’s lips turn up again, small and wavering, and he pulls the bedding from his lap to cover his mouth. This atmosphere is dangerous. His walls are down, inexplicably, and no matter how much he tells himself to put them back up, he doesn’t. He instead recalls sitting beside the fire in a mountainside cavern and sharing his greatest agony, the story being met not by mockery, but a strange, awkward kind of comfort. What he feels...it is not trust, or fondness. But in the very least, he does not think Iwaizumi intends to do him harm, now or in the near future. It is enough for his body to loosen, and for his lips to turn up even though it goes unseen by his bed partner in the dark.

“Please, do share these other talents with me,” he taunts, playfully. “What could possibly be more impressive than plaiting hair?”

“I am very good at tongue twisters,” Iwaizumi replies, just as serious as before.

Tooru’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”

Flatly, “No. I am terrible at them.”

Another laugh, and more astonishment at his own behavior. “What about plaiting hair? Was that a joke as well?”    

“That was true,” Iwaizumi answers, unexpectedly. “I had one of my servants teach me when I was very young. We practiced on horses’ tails.”

“Whatever for?”

“I wanted to be a good brother for my sister. I wanted to be able to braid her hair when she was too young to do it herself.”

“Your sister—” Tooru stops suddenly, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. _Has passed._ He does not know how he knows this, only that it comes from a conversation long ago, and that Iwaizumi was the one who told him. A feeling much like uneasiness passes through him. What else does he not remember? Surely he has not forgotten anything _important_ \--

“I have few memories of her,” Iwaizumi says, quietly. “Though I remember that her hair was black as soot and her cheeks were pink like roses, and that she laughed every day, even though she not yet knew how to speak.”

“I’m sorry,” Tooru murmurs, throat tight. He does not know how to act, because if he hates one thing, it is pity. And he knows Iwaizumi well enough by now that pity is not something he would ever welcome, especially from him.

“We have all lost people. Though I have been told that is no reason to stop living.” He says this last part rather stiffly, as though he were parroting something foreign from another pair of lips.

Tooru lies back down, face turned to see the faint light of the outside fire line the edge of Iwaizumi’s body. His eyes close. “I wonder if that is easier said than done.”

And then he sleeps, and so he does not wake when the bells suddenly stop ringing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> about time that there was a chapter without a flashback lol i hope i gave u enough iwaoi to make up for last chapter hehehehe (and for the fact that the next update won’t be a long time maybe lol sorry) 
> 
> this was originally going to be a lot longer w a lot more action but it was taking me too long to write and so i figured id be easy on myself and cut it into two pieces so that i could actually put out a chapter within a semi-reasonable amount of time i mean 3 months isn’t that long right? *nervous laughter* 
> 
> ALSO this is a really weird request but like...if you could pick one song that you feel really grasps the mood/vibe of this fic, what would it be? it could be instrumental or whatever, but it just got me thinking since i literally almost tried to google the soundtrack FOR MY OWN FIC before i remembered that wasn’t something that actually existed lmao. i think it could really help me out w motivation/inspiration if i had a playlist or something so if u could help a sister out that would be awesome!  
> as always, i love love love you all to bits and pieces, and thank you for your comments and endless patience. sorry if i don’t reply to all of them, sometimes i get in weird moods or i can’t find the time, but know i read and treasure every last one! 
> 
> thanks for reading! 
> 
> ohhotlamb.tumblr.com


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